LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 














"-n^o^ 






^ </ -^^^^r. ^ 






V "V A-^ 

v^-^^ 







^, ^ \ '••:*>:••/ \- 



■ft. '*' ■'^ 



0^ 









<^, 






'-^^o^ 



o " " ^ '^ 



.°-^^ 










0- - • - -^ 















'v V.^ ■ ^^S^^'; \. J" A 



A^^-V. 




















V o a. 



■^c> 









,Hq, 



•*•_ 









CL. *»»,-.•' aO' 



>*■, 



THE 



lo7 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



JVEIV A.VD REVISED EDITION, WITH MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED A YD 
FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS. 





BOSTON: 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

I.ATE TicKNOR & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
1877. 



Copyright, 1871 and 1S76, by 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



V 







RIVERSIDE, CAMBKIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



.'^^.,-- 



/" 






f^ 




CONTENTS. 



— • — 

VOICES OF THE NIGHT. page 

Prelude i 

Hymn to the Night 3 

A Psahn of Life 4 

Footsteps of Angels 4 

The Reaper and the Flowers 5 

The Light of Stars 6 

Flowers 7 

The Beleagured City 8 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 9 

EARLIER POEMS. 

An April Day 11 

Autumn « 12 

Woods in Winter 13 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem ...... 14 

Sunrise on the Hills 14 

The Spirit of Poetry 15 

Burial of the Minnisink 17 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Coplas de Manrique 19 

The Good Shepherd 25 

To-mor.ow 25 

The Native Land 25 

The Image of God 25 

The Brook 26 

The Celestial Pilot 26 

The Terrestrial Paradise 27 

Beatrice 28 

Spring 29 

The Child Asleep 29 

The Grave 29 

King Christian 30 



IV CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Happiest Land 31 

The Wave 31 

The Dead 31 

The Bird and the Ship 32 

Whither? 33 

Beware ! 33 

Song of the Bell 33 

The Castle by the Sea 34. 

The Black Knight 34. 

Song of the Silent Land 35 

L'Envoi 35, 

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

The Skeleton in Armor 36 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 39 

The Luck of Edenhall 41 

The Elected Knight 42 

The Children of the Lord's Supper 43, 

Miscellaneous. 

The Village Blacksmith 50. 

The Rainy Day 52 

Endymion 52 

Blind Bartimeus 53 

To the River Charles 53 

Excelsior 55 

Maidenhood 55 

God's-Acre 57 

The Two Locks of Hair 57 

It is not always May 58 

The Goblet of Life 59 

POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

To WiUiam E. Channing 61 

The Slave's Dream 61 

The Good Part 62 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp 63 

The Slave singing at Midnight 63 

The Quadroon Girl 64 

The Witnesses 65 

The Warning 65 

THE SPANISH STUDENT 66 

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 

Carillon ............. 101 

The Belfry of Bruges 101, 

Miscellaneous. 

The Arsenal at Springfield 103 

Nuremberg ............. 104, 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Bridge io6 

The Norman Baron io8 

A Gleam of Sunshine no 

To a Child m 

Rain in Summer 114 

To the Driving Cloud n6 

The Occultation of Orion 117 

Songs. 

The Day is done 118 

Drinking Song 119 

To an old Danish Song-Book 120 

The Arrow and the Song 121 

Sea-Weed 121 

The Old Clock on the Stairs 122 

Afternoon in February 124 

Walter von der Vogelweid 124 ' 

Sonnets. 

Autumn 126 

Dante 127 

The Evening Star 127 

Translations. 

The Hemlock Tree 128 

Annie of Tharaw 129 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door 129 

The Legend of the Cross-bill 130 

The Sea hath its Pearls 130 

Poetic Aphorisms 130 

Curfew 131 

EVANGELINE. A TALE OF ACADIE 132 

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 

Dedication '.... 178 

By the Seaside. 

The Building of the Ship 179 

Chrysaor 188 

The Secret of the Sea 188 

The Fire of Drift- Wood 189 

The Lighthouse . 190 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert 192 

Twilight 192 

By the Fireside. 

Resignation I94 

The Builders I95 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass '9^ 



vi CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

King Witlafs Drinking-Horn I97 

Birds of Passage ^9^ 

Caspar Becerra 198 

The Open Window I99 

Pegasus in Pound I99 

Tegner's Drapa . • • • • 200 

The Singers 201 

Hymn 203 

Sonnet 204 

Suspiria 204 

The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuill^ 204 

A Christmas Carol 209 

THE GOLDEN LEGEND 211 

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

I. The Peace-Pipe * . .292 

II. The Four Winds 295 

III. Hiawatha's Childhood 298 

IV. Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis 301 

V. Hiawatha's Fasting 305 

VI. Hiawatha's Friends 309 

VII. Hiawatha's Sailing 311 

VIII. Hiawatha's Fishing 313 

IX. Hiawatha and the Pearl -Feather 316 

X. Hiawatha's Wooing 319 

XI. Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast • 323 

XII. The Son of the Evening Star 326 

XIII. Blessing the Cornfields 330 

XIV. Picture- Writing 333 

XV. Hiawatha's Lamentation 335 

XVI. Pau-Puk-Keewis 338 

XVII. The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis . 341 

XVIII. The Death of Kwasind 346 

XIX. The Ghosts 347 

XX. The Famine 350 

XXI. The White Man's Foot 353 

XXII. Hiawatha's Departure 356 

Vocabulary 359 

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

I. Miles Standish 362 

II. Love and Friendship 364 

III. The Lover's Errand 366 

IV. John Alden 371 

V. The Sailing of the May Flower 375 

VI. Priscilla 378 

VII. The March of Miles Standish 381 

VIII. The Spinning-Wheel 383 

IX. The Wedding-Day 387 



CONTENTS. vii 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought 

The Ladder of St. Augustine .... 

The Phantom Ship 

Haunted Houses 

The Warden of the Cinque Ports 

In the Churchyard at Cambridge 

The Emperor's Bird's-Nest .... 

The Jewish Cemetery at Newport . 

The Two Angels 

Victor Galbraith 

Oliver Basselin 

Daylight and Moonlight 

My Lost Youth 

The Ropewalk 

The Golden Mile-Stone .... 

Catawba Wine 

Santa Filomena 

The Discoverer of the North Cape . 

Daybreak 

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 

Children 

Sandalphon . 

Epimetheus, or the Poet's Afterthought 

Flight the Second. 

The Children's Hour 

Something Left Undone .... 

Enceladus 

Weariness ....... 

Snow-Flakes ....... 

A Day of Sunshine 

The Cumberland ...... 

Flight the Third. 

Fata Morgana 

The Haunted Chamber 

The Meeting ...... 

Vo.x Populi ....... 

The Castle-Builder 

Changed 

The Challenge ...... 

The Brook and the Wave .... 

P^roni the Spanish Cancioneros . 

Aftermath 

Flight the Fourth. 

Travels by the Fireside 

Cadenabbia . . . . • . 
Monte Cassino 






I'AGE 

390 
390 
391 
392 
393 
394 
394 
395 
396 
397 
398 
399 
399 
401 
402 

403 
404 

405 
407 
408 
408 
409 
410 

412 

. 412 

412 

• 4'3 
414 

■ 414 
415 

. 416 
416 
416 
417 
417 
417 
417 
418 
418 
419 

420 
420 

4-1 
421 

4^3 



CONTENTS. 



The Sermon of St. Francis 

Belisarius 

Sonco River 



PAGE 

424 

424 
425 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Part First. 
Prelude. 

The Wayside Inn 

The Landlord's Tale. 

Paul Revere's Ride 

Interlude 

The Student's Tale. 

The Falcon of Ser Federigo 
Interlude ........ 

The Spanish Jew's Tale. 

The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi . 

Interlude . 

The Sicilian's Tale. 

King Robert of Sicily . ... 

Interlude 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Saga of King Olaf .... 

I. The Challenge of Thor . 
II. King Olaf's Return 

III. Thora of Rimol . . . . 

IV. Queen Sigrid the Haughty . 
V. The Skerry of Shrieks . 

VI. The Wraith of Odin . 

\TI. Iron-Beard 

VIII. Gudrun 

IX. Thangbrand the Priest 

X. Raud the Strong .... 

XL Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord 

XII. King Olaf's Christmas . 

XIII. The Building of the Long Serpent . 

XIV. The Crew of the Long Serpent . 
XV. A Little Bird in the Air . 

XVI. Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks 

XVII. King Svend of the Forked Beard . 

XVIII. King Olaf and Earl Sigvald . 

XIX. King Olaf's War-Horns . 

XX. Einar Tamberskelver . 

XXI. King Olaf's Death-Drink 
The Nun of Nidaros . 



XXII. 

Interlude . . . . 
The Theologian's Tale. 

Torquemada 
Interlude . . . . 
The Poet's Talc. 

The Birds of Killingworth 
Finale . . - . 



426 

430 

433 

433 
440 

440 
442 

442 
447 

447 
447 
447 
448 
449 
450 

452 
453 
455 
456 
457 
457 
458 

459 
461 
462 
462 
464 
464 

465 
466 
466 
467 
469 

469 

474 

474 
479 



CONTENTS. 



Part Second. . '''""''■' 

Prelude 4^° 

The Sicilian's Tale. 

The Bell of Atii 48 1 

Interlude ... 4o2 

The Spanish Jew's Tale. 

Kambalu 4^4 

Interlude 4=^5 

The Student's Tale. 

The Cobbler of Hagenau 485 

Interlude 488 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Ballad of Carmilhan . 488 

Interlude 49" 

The Poefs Tale. 

Lady Wentworth 49- 

Interlude 494 

The Theologian's Tale. 

The Legend Beautiful 494 

Interlude 49^' 

The Student's Second Tale. 

The Baron of St. Castine 49^ 

Finale . 50° 

Part Third. 

Prelude S^i 

The Spanish Jew's Tale. 

Azrael 5°3 

Interlude ........••••• 5^3 

The Poet's Tale. 

Charlemagne 5^4 

Interlude 505 

The Student's Tale. 

Emma and Eginhard 5°5 

Interlude 5^9 

The Theologian's Tale. 

Elizabeth S09 

Interlude 5'4 

The Sicilian's Talc. 

The Monk of Casal-Maggiore 515 

Interlude 5-° 

Tlie Spanish Jew's Second Tale. 

Scanderbeg .........••• 5-° 

Interlude . . . . . . . . • . . 5-- 

The Musician's Tale. 

The Mother's (}host . . . ■ 5-3 

Interlude 5-4 

The Landlord's Tale. 

The Rhvme of Sir Christni)her 5-4 

Finale . ' 526 



CONTENTS. 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE. I'Age 

Flo\ver-de-Luce 5-^ 

Palingenesis 5-9 

The Bridge of Cloud 53° 

The Wind over the Chimney 53' 

Hawthorne ........-••■ 53^ 

Christmas Bells . 533 

The Bells of Lynn v • : 533 

Divina Commedia 534 

To-morrow 535 

Killed at the Ford 535 

Giotto's Tower 537 

Noel 538 

JUDAS MACCAB/EUS 539 

A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS. 

The Fugitive 552 

The Siege of Kazan 553 

The Boy and the Brook 553 

To the Stork 554 

Consolation 554 

To Cardinal Richelieu . 554 

The Angel and the Child 555 

To Italy 555 

Wanderer's Night-Songs 5=^6 

Remorse 556 

Santa Teresa's Book-Mark 556 

THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 

I. The Workshop of Hephaestus 557 

II. Olympus . 558 

III. Tower of Prometheus on Mount Caucasus ..... 558 

IV. The Air 560 

V. The House of Epimetheus 561 

VI. In the Garden 362 

VII. The House of Epimetheus 365 

VI H. In the Garden 567 

THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 569 

MORITURI SALUTAMUS 578 

A BOOK OF SONNETS. 

Three Friends of Mine 383 

Chaucer ^84 

Shakespeare . 584 

Milton 584 

Keats 585 

The Gala.xy 585 

The Sound of the Sea ^85 



CONTENTS. 



A Summer Day by the Sea 5S5 

The Tides ■ cg^ 

A Shadow ............. rgg 

A Nameless Grave c86 

Sleep 586 

The Old Bridge at Florence 5S7 

II Ponte Vecchio di Firenze 587 

NOTES 589 

INDEX 611 




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

DESIGNED BY 

Beneath some patriarchal tree I lay upon the ground . . Birket Foster 

I heard the trailing garments of the Night . . . Jane E. Hay 

Country Churchyard Birket Foster 

There is no light in earth or heaven, but the cold, etc. . ib. 

Flowers Jane E. Hay 

Flowers John Gilbert 

There he stands in the foul weather ib. 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, and the forests utter a moan Birket Foster 

EARLIER POEMS. 

Inverted in the tide stand the gray rocks .... Birket Foster 

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke .... ib. 

O'er the bare upland, and away ...... ib. 

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills . . ib. 

In the green valley, where the silver brook . . . ib. 

And a band of stern in heart, and strong in hand . . ib. 

And swift an arrow cleaved its way to his stern heart . ib. 

TRANSLATIONS. 

Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 

So thou shalt in mould, dwell full cold .... Birket Foster 

Full and swollen is every sail ...... ib. 

After the Evening's close ib. 

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Round Tower at Newport Birket Foster 

And in the forest's shade our vows were plighted . . ib. 

Then launched they to the blast ib. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm .... John Gilbert 

The breakers were right beneath her bows . . . Birket Foster 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach //'. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree the village smithy stands ib. 

And children coming home from school look in . . F. O. C. Darley 

He hears his daughter's voice, singing in the village choir Birket Foster 
The rising moon has hid the stars ..... ib. 

Diana Jane E. Hay 

River! that in silence windest Birket Foster 



5 
6 

7 
8 

9 

10 



12 

13 
15 
i6 

17 
i8 



26 

30 
32 
35 



36 
37 
38 
39 
40 

41 
50 
51 
51 

52 
53 
54 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay 

Standing, with reluctant feet, where the brook and river 
This is the field and Acre of our God .... 
The sun is bright, — the air is clear .... 
Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth .... 

POEMS DN SLAVERY. 

And then at furious speed he rode .... 
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass 
The Slaver in the broad lagoon lay moored 



DESIGNED BY 

John Gilbert 

ib. 
BiRKET Foster 

ib. 
ib. 



BiRKET Foster 
ib. 
ib. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry 

House of Albrecht Diirer 

Albrecht Diirer, from the portrait by himself . 

I stood on the bridge at midnight .... 

In his chamber, weak and dying .... 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

This is the place. Stand still, my steed . 

With what a look of proud command 

Dashed it on Coromandel's strand .... 

Residence of Longfellow (formerly Washington's) 

Thou comest back to parley with repose . 

Near at hand, from under the sheltering trees 

Tail-piece 

The moon was pallid, but not faint .... 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard 

From the tumbling surf, that buries the Orkneyan skerries 
There groups of merry children played .... 
The day is ending, the night is descending .... 

On his tomb the birds were feasted 

Autumn .......... 

Dante, from the fresco by Giotti 

Reclines behind the sombre screen of yonder pines 
O hemlock tree ! how faithful are thy branches 
Dark grow the windows, and quenched is the fire 

EVANGELINE. 

This is the forest primeval ...... 

Waste are those pleasant farms ...... 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest 

She bore to the reapers at noontide flagons of home-brewed ale 

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well . 

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes . 

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests 

Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer . 

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains . 

Not so thinketh the folk in the village .... 

More than a hundred children's children rode on liis knee . 
In friendly contention the old men laughed 



BiRKET Foster 
ib. 

BiRKET Foster 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
Jane E. Hay 

R. S. GiFFORD 

BiRKET Foster 
Jane E. Hay 
Birket Foster 

ib. 
Jane E. Hay 



Btrket Foster 

//'. 

ib. 
John Gilbert 
Jane E. Hay 
Birket Foster 



Birket Foster 



Birket Foster 



PAGE 

55 
56 

57 
5S 
59 



61 

63 
64 



102 
105 

105 
107 
108 
109 

[10 

[II 

[12 

[12 

H5 

[I6 

17 
[I9 

120 

123 
124 
125 
126 
[27 
127 

t28 

131 



BiRKEr P"OSTER 

ib. 

lb. 

F. O. C. Darley 
BiRKET Foster 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
John Gii.hert 

ib. 

ib. 



132 
133 
134 
135 
136 
136 
137 
138 
139 
140 
141 
142 
'44 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



DESIGNED BV PAGE 

Now tVom the country around, from the farms . . . BiRKET Foster 146 

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances ib. 146 

Without, in the churchyard, waited the women . . ih. 147 

Driving in ponderous wains their household goods . . F. O. C. Darley 150 

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars . Birket Foster 151 

Suddenly rose from the south a light ..... ib. 152 

Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches ib. 153 

Recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ib. 153 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi . ib. 156 

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands . . ib. 157 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed . . ib. 158 

Resplendent in beauty, the lotus lifted her golden crown ib. 159 

Safely their boat was moored ...... ib. 160 

Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands . ib. 161 

The house itself was of timbers, hewn from the cypress-tree ib. 162 

Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups F. O. C. Darley 163 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains BrRKET Foster 166 

With horses, and guides, and companions, Gabriel left . ib. 167 

When they had reached the place, they found only embers F. O. C. Darley 168 

Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village Birket Foster 170 

In that delightful land ib. 172 

Night after night, when the world was asleep . . . ib. 1 73 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn .... Jane E. Hay 174 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt . . F. O. C. Darley 175 

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping Birket Foster 176 

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story . . ib. ij-j 

Tail-piece F. O. C. Darle\ 177 



THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel R. S. Gifford 179 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall . . . ib. 179 

A beautiful and gallant craft ib. 180 

In the ship-yard stood the Master W. J. Hennessy 180 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ...... ib. 182 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ib. 183 

And at the bows an image stood ib. 183 

The jaded steers, panting beneath the goad . . . . ib. 184 

In foreign harbors shall behold that flag unrolled . . R. S. Gifford 185 

The ocean old, centuries old ib. 185 

With one exulting, joyous bound, she leaps . . . W. J. Hennessy 186 

Sail forth into the sea of life, O gende, loving, trusting wife . ib. 187 

Tail-piece ib. 188 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me as I gaze upon the sea R. S. Gifford 188 

Saw a fair and stately galley, steering onward . . . BiRKET Foster 189 

We sat within the farm-house old ib. 190 

The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry . . . ib. igi 

A little face at the window peers out into the night . . Jane E. Hay 193 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, the wind blows wild and free Birket Foster 193 

The heart of Rachel, for her children ci7ing 194 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion 195 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth .... Jane E. Hay 196 

So sat they once at Christmas, and bade the goblet pass . Birket Foster 197 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 




XV 




DESIGNED BY 


PAGH 


I saw the nursery windows wide open :o the air 


BiRKET Foster 


199 


The first, a youth, with soul of fire 


E. Wenhert 


201 


The second, with a bearded face .... 


ib. 


202 


A gray old man, the third and last 


ib. 


203 


Tail-i)iece 


BiRKKT Foster 


210 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 






All the Saints and Guardian Angels throng in legions 


BiRKET Foster 


211 


You behold in me only a travelling physician . 


ib. 


213 


The storm, that against your casement drives 


ib. 


214 


Lilvc a vapor the golden vision shall fade and pass . 


ib. 


217 


How now, my friend ! This looks quite lonely . 


ib. 


21S 


The day is done ; and slowly from the scene . 


ib. 


220 


And lo ! he heard the sudden singing of a bird . 


Jane E. Hay 


221 


Prince Henry seated, ivith a book. Elsie, at a distance 


Birket Foster 


223 


They are sitting with Elsie at the door .... 


ib. 


224 


He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange . 


ib. 


226 


My Redeemer and my Lord, I beseech Thee . 


Jane E. Hay 


227 


I saw our little Gertrude die 


ib. 


229 


Why kee]) me pacing to and fro 


Birket Foster 


230 


Lo ! with what depth of blackness thrown .... 


ib. 


236 


A pulpit in the open air, and a Friar .... 


ib. 


23S 


Under the doorway's sacred shadow ...•'. 


ib. 


239 


How very grand it is and wonderful .... 


ib. 


241 


Along the garden walk, and thence through the wicket 


Tane E. Hay 


243 


Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth 


zb. 


244 


O Joseph ! I am much afraid 


ib. 


245 


Now, little Jesus, the carpenter's son .... 


ib. 


247 


With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned .... 


ib. 


249 


Why am I travelling here beside thee .... 


Birkei- Foster 


250 


Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs 


ib. 


251 


What is this castle that rises above us .... 


ib. 


252 


Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel 


ib. 


253 


Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey . 


ib. 


253 


I always enter this sacred place with a thoughtful 


Jane E. Hay 


254 


In that ancient town of Bacharach 


Birket Foster 


255 


There, now, there is one in her nest . . . . . 


Jane E. Hay 


256 


Slowly, slowly up the wall, steals the sunshine 


Birket Foster 


25S 


It is Count Hugo, of the Rhine 


Jane E. Hay 


260 


Do you, brother Paul, creep under the window 


Birket Foster 


261 


I feel my soul drawn unto thee, strangely and strongly 


ib. 


265 


Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, fairest, noblest, best of all . 


Jane E. Hay 


266 


Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds 


Birket Foster 


267 


Yonder lies the Lake of the Four Forest-Towns 


ib. 


270 


This bridge is called the Devil's Bridge .... 


ib. 


271 


This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers leap 


ib. 


272 


Land of the Madonna ! how beautiful it is . 


ib. 


273 


It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly .... 


ib. 


275 


The night is calm and cloudless 


ib. 


277 


On before the freshening gale 


ib. 


279 


She is a galley of the Gran Duca 


ib. 


279 


There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my shield 


Jane E. Hay 


2 So 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



nial 



Who is it coming under the trees ? . . . 

They are sailing homeward down the Rhine 

And midway an old man of threescore 

See yonder fire ! It is the moon 

Fainter and fainter the black lines begin to quiver 

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 

There he sung of Hiawatha 

The Peace- Pipe 

All the tribes beheld the si^ 

Honor be to Mudjekeewis . 

O that I were dead ! she murmured 

Forth he strode into the forest 

Long he looked at Hiawatlia 

And straightway his pipe he lighted 

And thus sailed my Hiawatha . 

That the birch canoe stood endwise 

Then the angiy Hiawatha raised his mighty bow 

Of the past the old man's thoughts were 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis 

And the sisters and their husbands laughed 

And whene'er some luclcy maiden found a red ear 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking in the solitary forest 

Broke the treacherous ice beneath him 

In a wooden bowl he placed them 

With a smile he spake in this wise : O my friend Ahn: 

There they stood, all armed and waiting . 

On the ice the noisy ball-play 

With both hands his face he covered 

O'er it, said he, o'er this water came a great canoe 

Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face . 

Tail-piece 

Tail-piece 



DESIGNED BY 

BiRKET Foster 

ib. 
Jane E. Hay 
BiRKET Foster 
Jane E. Hay 



Geo. 



H. Thomas 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
lb. 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling . John Absolon 

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed . . M. S. Morgan 
So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand ib. 

As he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden John Absolon 
I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage . ib. 

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered . M. S. Morgan 
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth . ib. 

Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden . . John Absolon 

And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down . , M. S. Morgan 

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore . John Absolon 

Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present M. S. Morgan 

The men were intent on their labors, busy with hewing . BiRKET Foster 

He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended . John Absolon 

Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud . . ib. 

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal M. S. Morgan 



PAGR 

285 
287 
288 
289 

290 



292 

293 
294 

296 

300 
302 
306 
310 
312 
314 
317 
321 

324 
327 
332 

334 
336 
340 
343 
347 
348 
352 
355 
357 
359 
361 



362 
364 
367 
368 

369 
372 
373 
375 
377 
379 
382 

384 
386 
388 
389 



/" 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



DESIGNED BY 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



When, steadily steering landward, a ship was seen below . M. S. Morgan 392 

I saw them pause on their celestial way .... John Absolon 396 

In the Valley of the Vire still is seen an ancient mill . . M. S. Morgan 398 

Two fair maidens in a swing, like white doves upon the wing John Absolon 401 

Sea-fog drifting overhead C. A. Barry 402 

By the fireside there are old men seated . . . . M. S. Morgan 403 

Lo ! in that house of misery a lady with a lamp I see . John Absolon 405 

And o'er the farms, O chanticleer, your clarion blow . . BiRKET Foster 407 

Come to me, O ye children ! for I hear you at your play . John Absolon 408 

Ye are better than all the ballads that ever were sung or said John Gilbert 409 

Tail-piece ib. 411 

BIRDS OF PASSAGE. FLIGHT THE SECOND. 

little feet ! that such long years must wander on ..... . 413 

Silent, and soft, and slow descends the snow . . . J'^HN' CilLKERT 414 

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

Like an old Patriarch he appeared, Abraham or Isaac . John Gilbert 428 

By the trembling latlder, steep and tall, to the highest window //'. 431 

He watched with eager search the belfry tower . . ib. 432 

His only forester and only guest his falcon . . . John Tenniel 434 

They found Ser Federigo at his toil M.E.Edwards 437 

No longer victor, but the victim thou ! . . . . John Tenniel 438 

Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task so sweet to me . //'. 439 

He saw the Angel of Death before him stand . . . John Gilhert 441 

And when they were alone, the Angel said. Art thou the King .'' .... 446 

Loudly through the wide-flung door, came the roar of the sea Birket Foster 451 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, blew a blast . . JoHiN Gilbert 454 

In the glimmer of the moon stands Gudrun . 455 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, as he sat . . John Gilbert 460 

Northward over Drontheim flew the clamorous sea-gulls . Bikicet Foster 463 

Alone in her chamber knelt Astrid the Abbess . . John Gilbert 468 

The splendor overhead, the death below ........ 470 

And to the statues of the Prophets bound, the victims stood M E. Edwards 473 

The green steeples of the piny wood .... Birket Foster 477 

What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead, is watching me ? .... 502 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers . . . . II. Fenn 528 

1 lay upon the headland-height G. 1'krkins 529 

Nathaniel Hawthorne ............ c;-'2 

Sudden and swift a whistling Ixill came out of a wood . W. Watd 536 

Giotto's Tower S. Colman, Jr. 537 

THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 

O fortunate, O happy day, when a new household 569 

And now I sit and muse on what may be ....... . 570 

The light of love shines over all 570 

Through the open door appears the selfsame scene 571 

They entertain a little angel unaware 571 

b 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE 

There lies a conversation in his eyes ......... 572 

And so good-night to King Canute 572 

There are two guests at table now ......... 573 

Above the ocean's rounded verge ......... 573 

I see it garlanded with guests 574 

Anxious she bends her graceful head ........ 575 

On battle-fields where thousands bleed -575 

Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again ....... 576 

The guests come thronging in once more ........ 576 

The ancient bridegroom and the bride ........ 577 

Till the long vista endless seems 577 



) .- 



■•'- % 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



IIoTI'lO, ITOTVia vv^, 

iirfoSoTeipa tCiv ito\vtt6i'<m>v PpoTUiV, 
"Epep6$€v I9i • itoKe iioKe xaran-Tcpos 
'Ayofttfivoviov tTTc Sdfioi' • 
virb yap aKyeoyv, vno tc (n;^(f)opa? 
Sioixoiied' , oixofAcfla. — EORIPIDES. 




:^^ Pleasant it was, when woods were grcc 



And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go ; 






Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves. 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 
I 



Beneath some patriai chal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one contmiKnis sound ; — 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



A slumberous sound, a sound that brings 


Nature with folded hands seemed there. 


The feelings of a dream, 


Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 


As of innumerable wings, 


Like one in prayer I stood 


As, when a bell no longer swings, 




Faint the hollow murmur rings 


Before me rose an avenue 


O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 


Of tall alfd sombrous pines ; 




Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 


And dreams of that which cannot die. 


And, where the sunshine darted through, 


Bright visions, came to me. 


Spread a vapor soft and blue. 


As lapped in thought I used to lie, 


In long and sloping lines. 


And gaze into the summer sky, 




Where the sailing clouds went by. 


And, falling on my weary brain. 


Like ships upon the sea ; 


Like a fast-falling shower, 




The dreams of youth came back again. 


Dreams that the soul of youth engage 


Low lispings of the summer rain. 


Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 


Dropping on the ripened grain. 


Old legends of the monkish page, 


As once upon the flower. 


Traditions of the saint and sage. 




Tales that have the rime of age, 


Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay ! 


And chronicles of eld. 


Ye were so sweet and wild ! 




And distant voices seemed to say. 


And, loving still these quaint old themes, 


*' It cannot be ! They pass away ! 


Even in the city's throng 


Other themes demand thy lay ; 


I feel the freshness of the streams, 


Thou art no more a child ! 


That, crossed by shades and sunny 




gleams. 


"The land of Song within thee lies. 


Water the green land of dreams. 


Watered by living springs ; 


The holy land of song. 


The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 




Are gates unto that Paradise, 


Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 


Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 


The Spring, clothed like a bride, 


Its clouds are angels' wings. 


When nestling buds unfold their wings. 




And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 


"Learn, that henceforth thy song shall 


Musing upon many things, 


be. 


I sought the woodlands wide. 


Not mountains capped with snow 




Nor forests sounding like the sea. 


The green trees whispered low and mild ; 


Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly. 


It was a sound of joy ! 


Where the woodlands bend to see 


They were my playmates when a child, 


The bending heavens below. 


And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 




Still they looked at me and smiled, 


" There is a forest where the din 


As if I were a boy ; 


Of iron branches sounds ! 




A mighty river roars between, 


And ever whispered, mild and low. 


And whosoever looks therein 


"Come, be a child once more ! " 


Sees the heavens all black with sin, 


And waved their long arms to and fro, 


Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 


And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 




O, I could not choose but go 


"Athwart the swinging branches cast. 


Into the woodlands hoar, — 


Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 




Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 


Into the blithe and breathing air. 


Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast , 


Into the solemn wood. 


Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 


Solemn and silent everywhere ! 


We can return no more ! ' 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 



" Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight, 



All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 
Be these henceforth thy theme." 




HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

'AoTratri'ij, Tpi'AAioTOS. 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 
Stoop o'er me from above ; 

The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 
As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and de- 
light. 
The manifold, soft chimes. 



That fill the haunted chambers of the 
Night, 
Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight 
air 
My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows 
there, — 
From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 
What man has borne before ! 

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of 
Care, 
And thev complain no more. 



4 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 


Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe 


Let us, then, be up and doing. 


this prayer ! 


With a heart for any fate ; 


Descend with broad-winged flight, 


Still achieving, still pursuing, 


The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the 


Learn to labor and to wait. 


most fair, 




The best-beloved Night ! 






FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 


A PSALM OF LIFE. 


When the hours of Day are numbered. 




And the voices of the Night 


WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN 


Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 


SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 


To a holy, calm delight ; 


Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 


Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 


Life is but an empty dream ! 


And, like phantoms grim and tall, 


For the soul is dead that slumbers. 


Shadows from the fitful fire-light 


And things are not what they seem. 


Dance upon the parlor wall ; 


Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 


Then the forms of the departed 


And the grave is not its goal ; 


Enter at the open door ; 


Dust thou art, to dust returnest. 


The beloved, the true-hearted, 


Was not spoken of the soul. 


Come to visit me once more ; 


Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 


He, the young and strong, who cher 


Is our destined end or way ; 


ished 


But to act, that each to-morrow 


Noble longings for the strife. 


Find us farther than to-day. 


By the roadside fell and perished, 




Weary with the march of life ! 


Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 




And our hearts, though stout and 


They, the holy ones and weakly. 


brave. 


Who the cross of suffering bore, 


Still, like muffled drums, are beating 


Folded their pale hands so meekly. 


Funeral marches to the grave. 


Spake with us on earth no more ! 


In the world's broad field of battle, 


And with them the Being Beauteous, 


In the bivouac of Life, 


Who unto my youth was given. 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 


More than all things else to love me, 


Be a hero in the strife ! 


And is now a saint in heaven. 


Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 


With a slow and noiseless footstep 


Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 


Comes that messenger divine, 


Act, — act in the living Present ! 


Takes the vacant chair beside me, 


Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 


Lays her gentle hand in mine. 


Lives of great men all remind us 


And she sits and gazes at me 


We can make our lives sublime, 


With those deep and tender eyes. 


And, departing, leave behind us 


Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 


Footprints on the sands of time ; — 


Looking downward from the skies. 


Footprints, that perhaps another. 


Uttered not, yet comprehended, 


Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 


Is the spirit's voiceless prayer. 


A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 


Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 


Seeing, shall take heart again. 


Breathing from her lips of air. 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. 



O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOW- 
ERS. 

There is a Reaper, whose name is 
Death, 

And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have naught that is fair t " 
saith he ; 
" Have naught but the bearded grain .' 
Though the breath of these flowers is 
sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
He kissed their drooping leaves ; 



It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowerets 
gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they. 
Where he was once a child. 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 

She knew she should find them aU 
again 
In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath. 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'T was an angel visited the green earth. 

And took the flowers away. 




VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



,v'- 



THE LIGHT OF STARS. 
The night is come, but not too soon ; 

And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 

Drops down behind the sky. 
There is no light in earth or heaven 

But the cold light of stars ; 
And the first watch of night is given 

To the red planet Mars. 
Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love and dreams ? 
O no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armor gleams. 
And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies. 

The shield of that red star. 
O star of strength ! I see thee stand 

And smile upon my pain ; 
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 

And I am strong again. 




*fe5.*S 



Within my breast there is no light 
But the cold light of stars ; 

I give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 



And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As one by one thy hopes depart. 
Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know erelong. 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



FLOWERS. 




'^^ " '^ 




Spake full well, in language quaint and olden. 
One who dvvelleth by the castled Rhine, 

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 



Bright and glorious is that revelation, 

Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation, 

In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the selfsame universal being, 

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 



Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver 
lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous 
tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light; 
Large desires, with most uncertain is- 
sues. 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 



These in flowers and men are more than 
seeming ; 
Workings are they of the selfsame 
powers, 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is 
born ; 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er- 
flowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden 
corn; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned 
field, 
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wear- 
ing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys. 
On the mountain-top, and by the 
brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland val- 
leys. 
Where the slaves of nature stoop to 
drink ; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory. 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 



But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in 
stone ; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant, , 
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling 
towers. 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flow- 
ers; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons. 
Flowers expand their light and soul- 
like wings. 
Teaching us, by most persuasive rea- 
sons, 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 




THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous 
tale. 

Some legend strange and vague. 
That a midnight host of spectres pale 

Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream. 
With the wan moon overhead. 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 



White as a sea-fog, landward bound. 
The spectral camp was seen. 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound. 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 
No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 

The mist-like banners clasped the air, 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR, 



The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of 
man, 
That strange and mystic scroll, 
That an army of phantoms vast and' 
wan 
Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream. 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 



Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen. 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there. 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air. 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And when thesolemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray. 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled ; 
Faith shineth as a morning star, 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 




MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DY- 
ING YEAR. 

Y ES, the Year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared ! 

Death, with frosty hand and cold. 
Plucks the old man by the beard. 
Sorely, sorely ! 

The le&ves are falling, falling. 

Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling, 



It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountain passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses, 
Singing, " Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray, pray ! " 

And the hooded clouds, like friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of rain, 
And patter their doleful prayers ; 



lo VOICES OF 


THE NIGHT. 


But their prayers are all in vain, 


Over the glassy skie^ 


All in vain ! 


No mist or stain ! 


There he stands in the foul weather, 


Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 


The foolish, fond Old Year, 


And the forests utter a moan, 


Crowned with wild-flowers and with 


Like the voice of one who crieth 


heather, 


In the wilderness alone. 


Like weak, despised Lear, 


" Vex not his ghost ! " 


A king, a king ! 






Then comes, with an awful roar, 


Then comes the summer-like day, 


Gathering and sounding on, 


Bids the old man rejoice ! 


The storm-wind from Labrador, 


His joy ! his last ! O, the old man 


The wind Euroclydon, 


gray 


The storm-wind ! 


Loveth that ever-soft voice. 




Gentle and low. 


Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 




Sweep the red leaves away \ 


To the crimson woods he saith. 


Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 


To the voice gentle and low 


O Soul ! could thus decay. 


Of the soft air, like a daughter's 


And be swept away ! 


breath, 




" Pray do not mock me so ! 


For there shall come a mightier blast. 


Do not laugh at me ! " 


There shall be a darker day ; 




And the stars, from heaven down-cast. 


And now the sweet day is dead ; 


Like red leaves be swept away ? 


Cold in his arms it lies ; 


Kyrie, eleyson ! 


No etain from its breath is spread 


Christe, eleyson ! 


y<fC^ 


':^^^s«j^ 


/jr^^^ ^^""i \ Tl^'*^!f^!^v 1 


M^gA 


■V^m 


m^m 


^H 


W^ 


^9r 


" 





EARLIER POEMS. 



[These poems were \vritten for the most part during ray college life, and all of tliem before the age of 
nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and 
precarious existence in the corners of newspapers ; or have changed their names and run away to seek their 
fortunes beyond the sea, I say, with tlie Bishop of Avranches on a similar occision : " I cannot be dis- 
pleased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their 
wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more 
decorous garb."] 




AN APRIL DAY. 

When the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where 
springs 
The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming with 

bright forms. 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 



From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and 

thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with win- 
ter's cold. 
The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and 

colored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that 
moves along 
The forest openings. 



EARLIER POEMS. 



When the bright sunset fills 


Inverted in the tide 


The silver woods with light, the green 


Stand the gray rocks, and trembling 


slope throws 


shadows throw, 


Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 


And the fair trees look over, side by side. 


And wide the upland glows. 


And see themselves below. 


And when the eve is born, 


Sweet April ! many a thought 


In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching 


Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are 


far, 


wed ; 


Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her 


Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn 


horn. 


brought. 


And twinkles many a star. 


Life's golden fruit is shed. 




AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes 
the year ! 

The buds of spring, those beautiful har- 
bingers 

Of sunny skies and cloudless times, en- 
joy 

Life's newness, and earth's garniture 
spread out ; 

And when the silver habit of the clouds 

Comes down upon the autumn sun, and 
with 



A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid 
scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing 

now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered 

trees, 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes. 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods. 
And dipping in warm light the pillared 

clouds. 



WOODS IN WINTER. 



13 



Morn on the mountain, like a summer 
bird, 

Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 

The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate 
wooer. 

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 

Within the solemn woods of ash deep- 
crimsoned. 

And silver beech, and maple yellow- 
leaved, 

Where Autumn, like a faint old man, 
sits down 

By the wayside a-weary. Through the 
trees 

The golden robin moves. The purple 
finch. 

That on wild-cherry and red- cedar feeds, 

A winter bird, comes with its plaintive 
whistle, 

And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst 
aloud 






From cottage roofs the warbling blue- 
bird sings, 
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke. 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy 
flail. 

O what a glory doth this world put on 

For him who, with a fervent heart, goes 
forth 

Under the bright and glorious sky, and 
looks 

On duties well performed, and days well 
spent ! 

For him the wind, ay, and the yellow 
leaves. 

Shall have a voice, and give him elo- 
quent teachings. 

He shall so hear the solemn hymn that 
Death 

Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 

To his long resting-place without a tear. 




^'j^J^^^'^-'i-.' 



WOODS IN WINTER. 

When winter winds are piercing chill. 
And through the hawthorn blows the 
gale, 



With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods. 



14 EARLIER POEMS. 


The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 


When the battle's distant wail 


And gladden these deep solitudes. 


Breaks the sabbath of our vale. 




WHien the clarion's music thrills 


Where, twisted round the barren oak. 


To the hearts of these lone hills. 


The summer vine in beauty clung, 


When the spear in conflict shakes. 


And summer winds the stillness broke. 


And the strong lance shivering breaks. 


The crystal icicle is hung. 






" Take thy banner ! and, beneath 


Where, from their frozen urns, mute 


The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 


springs 


Guard it, till our homes are free ! 


Pour out the river's gradual tide. 


Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! 


Shrilly the skater's iron rings. 


In the dark and trying hour, 


And voices fill the woodland side. 


In the breaking forth of power, 




In the rush of steeds and men. 


Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 


His right hand will shield thee then. 


When birds sang out their mellow 




lay. 


" Take thy banner ! But when night 


And winds were soft, and woods were 


Closes round the ghastly fight. 


green. 


If the vanquished warrior bow, 


And the song ceased not with the day ! 


Spare him ! By our holy vow. 




By our prayers and many tears. 


But still wild music is abroad. 


By the mercy that endears. 


Pale, desert woods ! within your 


Spare him ! he our love hath shared I 


crowd ; 


Spare him ! as thou wouldst be spared ! 


And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 




Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 


" Take thy banner ! and if e'er 




Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier. 


Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 


And the muffled drum should beat 


Has grown familiar with your song ; 


To the tread of mournful feet, 


\ hear it in the opening year, 


Then this crimson flag shall be 


I listen, and it cheers me long. 


Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 




The warrior took that banner proud. 


HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN 


And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 


NUNS OF BETHLEHEM. 




AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl's 


SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. 


BANNER. 






I STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's 


When the dying flame of day 


wide arch 


Through the chancel shot its ray. 


Was glorious with the sun's returning 


Far the glimmering tapers shed 


march, 


Faint light on the cowled head ; 


And woods were brightened, and soft gales 


And the censer burning swung, 


Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 


Where, before the altar, hung 


The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed 


The crimson banner, that with prayer 


in light. 


Had been consecrated there. 


They gathered midway round the wooded 


And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard 


height. 


the while, 


And, in their fading glory, shone 


Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 


Like hosts in battle overthrown. 




As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance. 


" Take thy banner ! May it wave 


Through the gray mist thrust up its shat- 


Proudly o'er the good and brave ; 


tered lance, 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 



»S 




And rocking on the cliff was left 
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's 

flow 
Was darkened by the forest's shade. 
Or glistened in the white cascade ; 
Where upward, in the mellow blush of 

day. 
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash, 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver 

beach, 
The woods were bending with a silent 

reach. 
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell. 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the 

woodland fills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout, 
That faint and far the glen sent out. 



Where, answering to the sudden shot, 

thin smoke. 
Through thick-leaved branches, from the 

dingle broke. 

If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will 

keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul 

from sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills ! No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, 
That dwells where'er the gentle south 

wind blows ; 
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in 

the glade, 
The wild-flowers bloom, or, kissing the 

soft air, 



i6 



EARLIER POEMS. 



The leaves above their sunny palms out- 
spread. 
With what a tender and impassioned 

voice 
It fills the nice and delicate ear of 

thought, 
When the fast ushering star of morning 

comes 
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden 

scarf ; 
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled 

Eve, 
In mourning weeds, from out the western 

gate, 
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit 

moves 
In the green valley, where the silver 
brook. 

Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, 
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, 
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks 
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, 
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees. 
In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth. 
My busy fancy oft embodies it, 



From its full laver, pours the white cas- 
cade ; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled 

woods. 
Slips down through moss-grown stones 

with endless laughter. 
And frequent, on the everlastings hills. 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm. 
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And 

here, amid 
The silent majesty of these deep woods, 
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts 

from earth. 
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright 

air 
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence 

gifted bards 




i\t^~^ 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 



17 



As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature ; of the heavenly 

forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft 

hues 
That stain the wild-bird's wing, and flush 

the clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing 

light, 
And when it wears the blue of May, is 

hung, 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her 

hair 



Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 
When twilight makes them brown, and 

on her cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her 

breath, 
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it 

comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird. 
Heard in the still night, with its passion- 
ate cadence. 




BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK. 

On sunny slope and beechen swell. 
The shadowed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown. 
With soft and silent lapse came down. 
The glory, that the wood receives. 
At sunset, in its golden leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white. 



Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening shone ; 

An image of the silver lakes. 

By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, ^ 
Came winding down beside the wave, 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 



i8 



EARLIER POEMS. 



They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 
And thirty snows had not yet slied 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and witliin 
Its heavy folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark -haired virgin train 
Chanted the death-dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 



With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief. 
Leading the war-horse of their chief. 

Stripped of his proud and martial 
dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless. 
With darting eye, and nostril spread, 
And heavy and impatient tread. 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they 
freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 
And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 







-«5»' 



TRANSLATIONS. 


(Don Jorge Manrique, the autlior of the following 


poem, flourished in the last half of tht fifteenth cen- 


tury. He followed the profession of arms, and died 


on the field of battle. Mariana, in hiS History of 


Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Vclis ; and speaks of him as " a 


youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young ; and was 


thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which 


was already known to fame." He was mortally woun 


ded in a skirmish near CaTiavete, in llie year 1479. 


The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the 


poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is 


well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 ; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles ; | 


but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaiia. It 


was his death that called forth the poem upon which 


rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. 


In the language of his historian, " Don Jorge Man- 


rique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections. 


mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." Tliis praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a 


model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful ; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on. 


— calm, dignified, and majestic] 




COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 


Thither the mighty torrents stray. 




Thither the brook pursues its way. 


FROM THE SPANISH. 


And tinkling rill. 




There all are equal ; side by side 


LET the soul her slumbers break, 


The poor man and the son of pride 


Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 


Lie calm and still. 


Awake to see 




How soon this life is past and gone, 


I will not here invoke the throng 


And death comes softly stealing on, 


Of orators and sons of song, 


How silently ! 


The deathless few ; 




Fiction entices and deceives, 


Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 


And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves. 


Our hearts recall the distant day 


Lies poisonous dew. 


With many sighs ; 




The moments that are speeding fast 


To One alone my thoughts arise. 


We heed not, but the past, — the past, 


The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise. 


More highly prize. 


To Him I cry. 




Who shared on earth our common lot, 


Onward its course the present keeps. 


But the world comprehended not 


Onward the constant current sweeps, 


His deity. 


Till life is done ; 




And, did we judge of time aright, 


This world is but the rugged road 


The past and future in their flight 


Which leads us to the bright abode 


Would be as one. 


Of peace above ; 




So let us choose that narrow way. 


Let no one fondly dream again. 


Which leads no traveller's foot astray 


That Hope and all her shadowy train 


From realms of love. 


Will not decay ; 




Fleeting as were the dreams of old. 


Our cradle is the starting-place. 


Remembered like a tale that 's told. 


Life is the running of the race, 


They pass away. 


We reach the goal 




When, in the mansions of the blest, 


Our lives are rivers, gliding free 


Death leaves to its eternal rest 


To that unfathomed, boundless sea. 


The weary soul. 


The silent grave ! 




Thither all earthly pomp and boast 


Did we but use it as we ouglit, 


Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 


This world would school each wandering 


In one dark wave. 


thought 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



To its high state. 


Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 


Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 


The scutcheon, that, without a stain, 


Up to that better world on high, 


Their fathers bore. 


For which we wait. 






Wealth and the high estate of pride, 


Yes, the glad messenger of love, 


With what untimely speed they glide. 


To guide us to our home above. 


How soon depart ! 


The Saviour came ; 


Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay. 


Born amid mortal cares and fears. 


The vassals of a mistress they, 


He suffered in this vale of tears 


Of fickle heart. 


A death of shame. 






These gifts in Fortune's hands are 


Behold of what delusive worth- 


found ; 


The bubbles we pursue on earth, 


Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 


The shapes we chase, 


And they are gone ! 


Amid a world of treachery ! 


No rest the inconstant goddess knows. 


They vanish ere death shuts the eye. 


But changing, and without repose. 


And leave no trace. 


Still hurries on. 


Time steals them from us, chances 


Even could the hand of avarice save 


strange. 


Its gilded bawbles, till the grave 


Disastrous accident, and change. 


Reclaimed its prey. 


That come to all ; 


Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 


Even in the most exalted state. 


Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 


Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 


And where are they ? 


The strongest fall. 






Earthly desires and sensual lust 


Tell me, the charms that lovers seek 


Are passions springing from the dust, 


In the clear eye and blushing cheek, 


They fade and die ; 


The hues that play 


But, in the life beyond the tomb. 


O'er rosy lip and brow of snow. 


They seal the immortal spirit's doom 


When hoary age approaches slow. 


Eternally ! 


Ah, where are they ? 






The pleasures and delights, which mask 


The cunning skill, the curious arts. 


In treacherous smiles life's serious task, 


The glorious strength that youth im- 


What are they, all. 


parts 


But the fleet coursers of the chase. 


In life's first stage ; 


And death an ambush in the race. 


These shall become a heavy weight. 


Wherein we fall } 


When Time swings wide his outward 




gate 


No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed. 


To weary age. 


Brook no delay, but onward speed 




With loosened rein ; 


The noble blood of Gothic name. 


And, when the fatal snare is near, 


Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 


We strive to check our mad career, 


In long array ; 


But strive in vain. 


How, in the onward course of time. 




The landmarks of that race sublime 


Could we new charms to age impart, 


Were swept away ! 


And fashion with a cunning art 




The human face. 


Some, the degraded slaves of lust. 


As we can clothe the soul with light, 


Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 


And make the glorious spirit bright 


Shall rise no more ; 


With heavenly grace, 



\ 



CO PL AS DE 


MANRIQUE. 2 1 


How busily each passing hour 


Where are the gentle knights, that came 


Should we exert that magic power, 


To kneel, and breathe love's ardent 


What ardor show, 


flame. 


To deck the sensual slave of sin, 


Low at their feet } 


Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 




In weeds of woe ! 


Where is the song of Troubadour } 




Where are the lute and gay tambour 


Monarchs, the powerful and the strong. 


They loved of yore .■* 


Famous in history and in song 


Where is the mazy dance of old. 


Of olden time, 


The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, 


Saw, by the stern decrees of fate. 


The dancers wore ? 


Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 




Their race sublime. 


And he who next the sceptre swayed, 




Henry, whose royal court displayed 


Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 


Such power and pride ; 


Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 


O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 


On these shall fall 


The world its various pleasures laid 


As heavily the hand of Death, 


His throne beside ! 


As when it stays the shepherd's breath 




Beside his stall. 


But how false and full of guile 




That world, which wore so soft a smile 


I speak not of the Trojan name. 


But to betray ! 


Neither its glory nor its shame 


She, that had been his friend before, 


Has met our eyes ; 


Now from the fated monarch tore 


Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead. 


Her charms away. 


Though we have heard so oft, and read. 




Their histories. 


The countless gifts, the stately walls, 




The royal palaces, and halls 


Little avails it now to know 


All filled with gold ; 


Of ages passed so long ago, 


Plate with armorial bearings wrought. 


Nor how they rolled ; 


Chambers with ample treasures fraught 


Our theme shall be of yesterday, 


Of wealth untold ; 


Which to oblivion sweeps away, 




Like days of old. 


The noble steeds, and harness bright. 




And gallant lord, and stalwart knight. 


Where is the King, Don Juan ? Where 


In rich array. 


Each royal prince and noble heir 


Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 


Of Aragon ? 


Like the bright dewdrops on the grass. 


Where are the courtly gallantries .-• 


They passed away. 


The deeds of love and high emprise. 




In battle done ? 


His brother, too, whose factious zeal 




Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 


Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye. 


Unskilled to reign ; 


And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 


What a gay, brilliant court had he. 


And nodding plume. 


When all the flower of chivalry 


What were they but a pageant scene ? 


Was in his train ! 


What but the garlands, gay and green. 




That deck the tomb ? 


But he was mortal ; and the breath, 




That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 


Where are the high-born dames, and 


Blasted his years ; 


where 


Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 


Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 


When raging fierce and fearfully, 


And odors sweet ? 


Was quenched in tears ! 



TRANSLA TJONS. 



Spain's haughty Constable, the true 
And gallant Master, whom we knew 
Most loved of all ; 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride, 
He on the gloomy scaffold died, 
Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care, 

His villages and villas fair. 

His mighty power, 

What were they all but grief and shame, 

Tears and a broken heart, when came 

The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high, 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 
Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 

What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died ? 

So many a duke of royal name, 
Marquis and count of spotless fame. 
And baron brave. 

That might the sword of empire wield. 
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms. 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms. 
When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face. 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, 
Pennon and standard flaunting high, 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements intrenched around. 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, 
And palisade. 

And covered trench, secure and deep. 
All these cannot one victim keep, 
O Death, from thee. 
When thou dost battle in thy wrath. 



And thy strong shafts pursue their path 
Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live, 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast. 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 

Our days are covered o'er with grief, 
And soiTows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears. 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear, 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

Thy goods are bought with many a 

groan. 
By the hot sweat of toil alone. 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe. 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield and 

shade, 
To whom all hearts their homage paid, 
As Virtue's son, 

Roderic Manrique, he whose name 
Is written on the scroll of Fame, 
Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung ? 

The name, that dwells on every tongue, 

No minstrel needs. 

To friends a friend ; how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 

To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief ! 



COPLAS BE 


MANRIQUE. 23 


What prudence with the old and wise : 


Brothers and bondsmen of his power 


"What grace in youthful gayeties ; 


His hand sustained. 


In all how sage ! 




Benignant to the serf and slave, 


After high deeds, not left untold. 


He showed the base and falsely brave 


In the stern warfare, which of old 


A lion's rage. 


'T was his to share. 




Such noble leagues he made, that more 


His was Octavian's prosperous star, 


And fairer regions, than before. 


The rush of Caesar's conquering car 


His guerdon were. 


At battle's call ; 




His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 


These are the records, half effaced. 


And the indomitable will 


Which, with the hand of youth, he 


Of Hannibal. 


traced 




On history's page ; 


His was a Trajan's goodness, his 


But with fresh victories he drew 


A Titus' noble charities 


Each fading character anew 


And righteous laws ; 


In his old age. 


The arm of Hector, and the might 




Of Tully, to maintain the right 


By his unrivalled skill, by great 


In truth's just cause ; 


And veteran service to the state, 




By worth adored. 


The clemency of Antonine, 


He stood, in his high dignity. 


Aurelius' countenance divine, 


The proudest knight of chivalry, 


Firm, gentle, still ; 


Knight of the Sword. 


The eloquence of Adrian, 




And Theodosius' love to man, 


He found his cities and domains 


And generous will ; 


Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 




And cruel power ; 


In tented field and bloody fray, 


But, by fierce battle and blockade, 


An Alexander's vigorous sway 


Soon his own banner was displayed 


And stern command ; 


From every tower. 


The faith of Constantine ; ay, more. 




The fervent love Camillus bore 


By the tried valor of his hand. 


His native land. 


His monarch and his native land 




Were nobly served ; 


He left no well-filled treasury. 


Let Portugal repeat the story. 


He heaped no pile of riches high, 


And proud Castile, who shared the 


Nor massive plate ; 


glory 


He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, 


His arms deserved. 


City and tower and castled wall 




Were his estate. 


And when so oft, for weal or woe, 




His life upon the fatal throw 


Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, 


Had been cast down ; 


Brave steeds and gallant riders found 


When he had served, with patriot zeal. 


A common grave ; 


Beneath the banner of Castile, 


And there the warrior's hand did gain 


His sovereign's crown ; 


The rents, and the long vassal train, 




That conquest gave. 


And done such deeds of valor strong. 




That neither history nor song 


And if, of old, his halls displayed 


Can count them all ; 


The honored and exalted grade 


Then, on Ocaiia's castled rock. 


His worth had gained, 


Death at his portal came to knock, 


So, in the dark, disastrous hour, 


With sudden call, 



24 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 


"Cheered onward by this promise sure, 


To leave this world of toil and care 


Strong in the faith entire and pure 


With joyful mien ; 


Thou dost profess, 


Let thy strong heart of steel this day 


Depart, thy hope is certainty. 


Put on its armor for the fray, 


The third, the better life on high 


The closing scene. 


Shalt thou possess." 


" Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 


" O Death, no more, no more delay ; 


So prodigal of health and life. 


My spirit longs to flee away. 


For earthly fame, 


And be at rest ; 


Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 


The will of Heaven my will shall be. 


Loud on the last stern battle-plain 


I bow to the divine decree. 


They call thy name. 


To God's behest. 


"Think not the struggle that draws near 


" My soul is ready to depart. 


Too terrible for man, nor fear 


No thought rebels, the obedient heart 


To meet the foe ; 


Breathes forth no sigh ; 


Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 


The wish on earth to linger still 


Its life of glorious fame to leave 


Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign 


On earth below. 


will 




That we shall die. 


" A life of honor and of worth 




Has no eternity on earth. 


" O thou, that for our sins didst take 


'T is but a name ; 


A human form, and humbly make 


And yet its glory far exceeds 


Thy home on earth ; 


That base and sensual life, which leads 


Thou, that to thy divinity 


To want and shame. 


A human nature didst ally 




By mortal birth. 


" The eternal life, beyond the sky. 




"Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 


" And in that form didst suffer here 


And proud estate ; 


Torment, and agony, and fear, 


The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit 


So patiently ; 


Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit 


By thy redeeming grace alone, 


A joy so great. 


And not for merits of my own, 




O, pardon me ! " 


"But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 




Shall gain it by his book and bell, 


As thus the dying warrior prayed. 


His prayers and tears ; 


Without one gathering mist or shade 


And the brave knight, whose arm endures 


Upon his mind ; 


Fierce battle, and against the Moors 


Encircled by his family. 


His standard rears. 


Watched by affection's gentle eye 




So soft and kind ; 


"And thou, brave knight, whose hand 




has poured 


His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ; 


The life-blood of the Pagan horde 


God lead it to its long repose. 


O'er all the land, 


Its glorious rest ! 


In heaven shalt thou receive, at length. 


And, though the warrior's sun has set, 


The guerdon of thine earthly strength 


Its light shall linger round us yet, 


And dauntless hand. 


Bright, radiant, blest. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 



25 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Shepherd ! who with thine amorous, 
sylvan song 

Hast broken the slumber that encom- 
passed me, 

Who mad'st thy crook from the ac- 
cursed tree. 

On which thy powerful arms were 
stretched so long ! 
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing foun- 
tains ; 

For thou my shepherd, guard, and 
guide shalt be ; 

I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 

Thy feet all beautiful upon the moun- 
tains. 
Hear, Shepherd ! thou who for thy flock 
art dying, 

O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 

Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
O, wait ! to thee my weary soul is crying. 

Wait for me ! Yet why ask it, when I 
see, 

With feet nailed to the cross, thou'rt 
waiting still for me ! 

TO-MORROW. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA. 

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing 

care. 
Thou didst seek after me, that thou 

didst wait. 
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my 

gate. 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter 

there ? 
O strange delusion ! that I did not greet 
Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven 

how lost, 
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon 

thy feet. 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
" Soul, from thy casement look, and 

thou shalt see 
How he persists to knock and wait for 

thee ! " 



And, O ! how often to that voice of sor- 
row, 
" To-morrow we will open," I replied. 
And when the morrow came I answered 
still, 

" To-morrow." 



THE NATIVE LAND. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE 
ALDAN A. 

Clear fount of light ! my native land on 

high. 
Bright with a glory that shall never 

fade ! 
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or 

shade. 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 
There dwells the soul in its ethereal es- 
sence, 
Gasping no longer for life's feeble 

breath ; 
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious 

presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, 

death. 
Beloved country ! banished from thy 

shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for 

thee ! 
Heavenward the bright perfections I 

adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers 

the way. 
That, whither love aspires, there shall 

my dwelling be. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE 
ALDANA. 

O Lord ! who secst, from yon starry 

height, 
Centred in one the future and the past, 
Fashioned in thine own image, see how 

fast 
The world oliscures in me what once was 

bright ! 



26 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Eternal Sun ! the warmth v/hich thou 


Before my spirit, and an image fair 


hast given, 


Shall meet that look of mercy from on 


To cheer life's flowery April, fast de- 


high. 


cays ; 


As the reflected image in a glass 


Yet, in the hoary winter of my days. 


Doth meet the look of him who seeks 


Forever green shall be my trust in 


it there, 


Heaven. 


And owes its being to the gazer's 


Celestial King ! O let thy presence pass 


eye. 




THE BROOK. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird 

and tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the 

morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are 

born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in 

thee ! 
Although, where'er thy devious current 

strays, 
The lap of earth with gold and silver 

teems. 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter 

seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each 

shepherd's gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all trans- 
parent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious 

eye 



Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round 

pebbles count ! 
How, without malice murmuring, glides 

thy current ! 
O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to 

dwell in limpid fount ! 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT. 

FROM DANTE. PURGAToRIO, II. 

And now, behold ! as at the approach of 
morning. 
Through the gross vapors. Mars grows 

fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean 
floor. 
Appeared to me, — may I again behold it ! 
A light along the sea, so swiftly com- 
ing, 
Its motion by no flight of wing is 
equalled. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 



27 



And when therefrom I had witlidrawn a 
little 

Mine eyes, that I might question my 
conductor, 

Again I saw it brighter grown and 
larger. 
Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

I knew not what of white, and under- 
neath, 

Little by little, there came forth an- 
other. 
My master yet had uttered not a word, 

While the first whiteness into wings 
unfolded ; 

But, when he clearly recognized the 
pilot. 
He cried aloud : " Quick, quick, and 
bow the knee ! 

Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy 
hands ! 

Henceforward shalt thou see such 
officers ! 
See, how he scorns all human argu- 
ments. 

So that no oar he wants, nor other 
sail 

Than his own wings, between so dis- 
tant shores ! 
See, how he holds them, pointed straight 
to heaven, 

Fanning the air with the eternal pin- 
ions. 

That do not moult themselves like 
mortal hair ! " 
And then, as nearer and more near us 
came 

The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he 
appeared. 

So that the .jqye could not sustain his 
presence, 
But down I cast it ; and he came to 
shore 

With a small vessel, gliding swift and 
light, 

So that the water swallowed naught 
thereof. 
Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ! 

Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 

And more than a hundred spirits sat 
within. 
" In exitu Israel de ./Egyplo ! " 

Thus sang they all together in one 



With whatso in that Psalm is after 

written. 
Then made he sign of holy rood upon 

them. 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the 

shore. 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. 

Longing already to search in and round 

The heavenly forest, dense and living- 
green, 

Which tempered to the eyes the new- 
born day, 
Withouten more delay I left the bank. 

Crossing the level country slowly, 
slowly. 

Over the soil, that everywhere breathed 
fragrance. 
A gently-breathing air, that no muta- 
tion 

Had in itself, smote me upon the fore- 
head. 

No heavier blow, than of a pleasant 
breeze. 
Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward to- 
wards that side 

Where its first shadow casts the Holy 
Mountain ; 
Yet not from their upright direction 
bent 

So that the little birds upon their 
tops 

Should cease the practice of their tune- 
ful art ; 
But, with full-throated joy, the hours of 
prime 

Singing received they in the midst of 
foliage 

That made monotonous burden l<i 
their rhymes, 
Even as from branch to branch it gather- 
ing swells. 

Through the pine forests on the shore 
of Chiassi, 

When ^Eolus unlooses the Sirocca 
Already my slow steps had led me on 

Into the ancient wood so far, that I 



2 8 TRANSLA riONS. 


Could see no more the place where I 


And down descended inside and with- 


had entered. 


out. 


And lo ! my further course cut off a 


With crown of olive o'er a snow-white 


river, 


veil. 


Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its 


Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 


little waves, 


Vested in colors of the living flame. 


Bent down the grass, that on its mar- 




gin sprang. 


Even as the snow, among the living 


All waters that on earth most limpid 


rafters 


are, 


Upon the back of Italy, congeals. 


Would seem to have within them- 


Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian 


selves some mixture, 


winds, 


Compared with that, which nothing 


And then, dissolving, filters through it- 


doth conceal. 


self. 


Although it moves on with a brown, 


Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, 


brown current. 


breathes. 


Under the shade perpetual, that never 


Like as a taper melts before a fire, 


Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 


Even such I was, without a sigh or tear, 




Before the song of those who chime 




forever 


BEATRICE. 


After the chiming of the eternal 




spheres ; 


FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 


But, when I heard in those sweet melo- 




dies 


Even as the Blessed, at the final sum- 


Compassion for me, more than had 


mons. 


they said. 


Shall rise up quickened, each one 


"O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus 


from his grave. 


consume him ? " 


Wearing again the garments of the 


The ice, that was about my heart con- 


flesh, 


gealed. 


So, upon that celestial chariot. 


To air and water changed, and, in my 


A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 


anguish. 


Ministers and messengers of life eter- 


Through lips and eyes came gushing 


nal. 


from my breast. 


They all were saying, " Benedictiis qui 




venis,^^ 


Confusion and dismay, together min- 


And scattering flowers above and 


gled. 


round about. 


Forced such a feeble " Yes ! " out of 


" Manibus o date I ilia pleiiis." 


my mouth. 


Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, 


To understand it one had need of 


The orient sky all stained with roseate 


sight. 


hues. 


Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is 


And the other heaven with light serene 


discharged. 


adorned. 


Too tensely drawn the bow-string, and 


And the sun's face uprising, overshad- 


the bow. 


owed. 


And with less force the arrow hits the 


So that, by temperate influence of 


mark ; 


vapors. 


So I gave way beneath this heavy bur- 


The eye sustained his aspect for long 


den. 


while ; 


Gushing forth into bitter tears and 


Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers. 


sighs. 


Which from those hands angelic were 


And the voice, fainting, flagged upon 


thrown up. 


its passage. 



THE GRAVE. 29 


SPRING. 


Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently 




place 


FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'OR- 


Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's 


LEANS. 


breast. 


XV. CENTURY. 


Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 




Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not 


Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad, 


to me ! 


Well dost thou thy power display ! 


I watch to see thee, nourish thee, de- 


For Winter maketh the light heart sad, 


fend ; 


And thou, thou makest the sad heart 


'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for 


gay- 


thee ! 


He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 




The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, 


His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his 


and the rain ; 


brow ; 


And they shrink away, and they flee in 


His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor 


fear, 


dreams of harm. 


When thy merry step draws near. 


Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy 




glow. 


Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so 


Would you not say he slept on Death's 


old. 


cold arm ? 


Their beards of icicles and snow ; 




And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold. 


Awake, my boy ! I tremble with af- 


We must cower over the embers low ; 


fright ! 


And, snugly housed from the wind and 


Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! 


weather, 


Unclose 


Mope like birds that are changing feather. 


Thine eye but for one moment on the 


But the storm retires, and the sky grows 


light ! 


clear, 


Even at the price of thine, give me 


When thy merry step draws near. 


repose ! 


Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy 


Sweet error ! he but slept, I breathe 


sky 


again ; 


Wrap him round with a mantle of 


Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep 


cloud ; 


beguile ! 


But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 


0, when shall he, for whom I sigh in 


Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 


vain, 


And the earth looks bright, and Winter 


Beside me watch to see thy waking 


surly. 


smile } 


Who has toiled for naught both late and 




early. 




Is banished afar by the new-born year, 


THE GRAVE. 


When thy merry step draws near. 






FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON. 


THE CHILD ASLEEP. 


For thee was a house built 




Ere thou wast born, 


FROM THE FRENCH. 


For thee was a mould meant 




Ere thou of mother earnest 


Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's 


But it is not made ready. 


face. 


Nor its depth measured, 


Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have 


Nor is it seen 


pressed ! 


How long it shall he. 



30 



TRANS LA TIONS. 




Now I bring thee 
Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 
It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein. 
The heel-ways are low ; 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh, 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold. 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house, 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell. 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid. 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend. 
Who will come to thee. 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee ; 



Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 
And descend after thee ; 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 



KING CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK. 

FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES 
EVALD. 

King Christian stood by the lofty 
mast 
In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it 

passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who 

can ! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 
The stroke .? " 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's 
roar, 
Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more, 
And smote upon the foe tun sore, 



I 



THE DEAD. 3 1 


And shouted loud, through the tempest's 


" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing. 


roar, 


And dashed his beard with wine ; 


" Now is the hour ! " 


" I had rather live in Lapland, 


" Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter fly ! 


Than that Swabian land of thine ! 


Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 




The power ? " 


" The goodliest land on all this earth. 




It is the Saxon land ! 


North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 


There have I as many maidens 


Thy murky sky ! 


As fingers on this hand ! " 


Then champions to thine arms were 




sent ; 


" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and 


Terror and Death glared where he went ; 


Saxon ! " 


From the waves was heard a wail, that 


A bold Bohemian cries ; 


rent 


" If there 's a heaven upon this earth 


Thy murky sky ! 


In Bohemia it lies. 


From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 




Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 


" There the tailor blows the flute. 


And fly ! 


And the cobbler blows the horn, 




And the miner blows the bugle. 


Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 


Over mountain gorge and bourn." 


Dark-rolling wave ! 




Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 


And then the landlord's daughter 


Goes to meet danger with despite, 


Up to heaven raised her hand. 


Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 


And said, " Ye may no more contend, — 


Dark-rolling wave ! 


There lies the happiest land ! " 


And amid pleasures and alarms. 




And war and victory, be thine arms 




My grave ! 


THE WAVE. 




from the GERMAN OF TIEDGE. 


THE HAPPIEST LAND. 






" Whither, thou turbid wave ? 


FROM THE GERMAN. 


Whither, with so much haste. 




As if a thief wert thou .'' " 


There sat one day in quiet, 




By an alehouse on the Rhine, 


" I am the Wave of Life, 


Four hale and hearty fellows. 


Stained with my margin's dust ; 


And drank the precious wine. 


From the struggle and the strife 




Of the narrow stream I fly 


The landlord's daughter filled their cups, 


To the Sea's immensity, 


Around the rustic board ; 


To wash from me the slime 


Then sat they all so calm and still. 


Of the muddy banks of Time." 


And spake not one rude word. 




But, when the maid departed, 


THE DEAD. 


A Swabian raised his hand, 




And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 


FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMAN N. 


" Long live the Swabian land ! 






How they so softly rest, 


" The greatest kingdom upon earth 


All they the holy ono. 


Cannot with that compare ; 


Unto whose dwelling-place 


With all the stout and hardy men 


Now doth my soul draw near ! 


And the nut-brown maidens there." 


How they so softly rest, 



32 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



All in their silent graves, 
Deep to corruption 
Slowly down-sinking ! 

And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still ! 



And they no longer feel, 

Here, where all gladness flies ! 

And, by the cypresses 

Softly o'ershadowed, 

Until the Angel 

Cnlls them, they slumber ! 




THE BIRD AND THE SHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MIJLLER. 

" The rivers rush into the sea, 

By castle and town they go ; 
The winds behind them merrily 

Their noisy trumpets blow. 

" The clouds are passing far and high, 
We little birds in them play ; 

And everything, that can sing and fly, 
Goes with us, and far away. 

" I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, or 
whence, 
With thy fluctering golden band ? " — 
" I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide 
sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 

" Full and swollen is every sail ; 
I see no longer a hill, 



I have trusted all to the sounding gale. 
And it will not let me stand still. 

" And wilt thou, littk bird, go with us ? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 

With merry companions all." — 

" I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

" High over the sails, high over the mast, 
Who shall gainsay these joys ? 

When thy merry companions are still, at 
last, 
Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 

" Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 

God bless them every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day. 

And the siolden fields of the sun. 



SONG OF THE BELL. 



33 



" Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow ; 

And this same song, my whole life long. 
Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



WHITHER ? 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. 

I HEARD a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 

Nor who the counsel gave ; 
But I must hasten downward, 

All with my pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther, 

And ever the brook beside ; 
And ever fresher murmured. 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going } 

Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 

Murmured my senses away. 

What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 
'T is the water-nymphs, that are sing- 
ing 

Their roundelays under me. 

Let them sing, my friend, let them mur- 
mur, 

And wander merrily near ; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 



BEWARE ! 

FROM THE GERMA.N. 

I KNOW a maiden fair to see. 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 



She has two eyes, so soft and brown. 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue. 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow. 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 



SONG OF THE BELL. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily. 
When the bridal party 

To the church doth hie ! 
Bell ! thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning. 

Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
Tellest thou at evening. 

Bedtime draweth nigh ! 
Bell ! thou soundest mournfully, 
Tellest thou the bitter 

Parting hath gone by ! 

Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 
How canst thou rejoice } 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings. 
And all our rejoicings. 

Thou dost feel them all ! 



34 TKANSLA TIONS. 


God hath wonders many, 


THE BLACK KNIGHT. 


Which we cannot fathom, 




Placed withhi thy form ! 


FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 


When the heart is sinking. 




Thou alone canst raise it. 


'T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 


Trembling in the storm ! 


When woods and fields put off all sadness. 




Thus began the King and spake : 




" So from the halls 


THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 


Of ancient Hofburg's walls. 




A luxuriant Spring shall break." 


FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 






Drums and trumpets echo loudly. 


" Hast thou seen that lordly castle. 


Wave the crimson banners proudly. 


That Castle by the Sea ? 


From balcony the King looked on ; 


Golden and red above it 


In the play of spears, 


The clouds float gorgeously. 


Fell all the cavaliers. 




Before the monarch's stalwart son. 


" And fain it would stoop downward 




To the mirrored wave below ; 


To the barrier of the fight 


And fain it would soar upward 


Rode at last a sable Knight. 


In the evening's crimson glow." 


" Sir Knight ! your name and scutch- 




eon, say ! " 


" Well have I seen that castle, 


" Should I speak it here. 


That Castle by the Sea, 


Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 


And the moon above it standing, 


I am a Prince of mighty sway ! " 


And the mist rise solemnly." 






When he rode into the lists. 


" The winds and the waves of ocean. 


The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 


Had they a merry chime ? 


And the castle 'gan to rock ; 


Didst thou hear, from those lofty cham- 


At the first blow. 


bers, 


Fell the youth from the saddle-bow, 


The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? " 


Hardly rises from the shock ; 


" The winds and the waves of ocean, 


Pipe and viol call the dances, 


They rested quietly, 


Torch-light through the high halls glances. 


But I heard on the gale a sound of wail. 


Waves a mighty shadow in ; 


And tears came to mine eye." 


With manner bland 




Doth ask the maiden's hand, 


" And sawest thou on the turrets 


Doth with her the dance begin ; 


The King and his royal bride .'' 




And the wave of their crimson man- 


Danced in sable iron sark. 


tles .> 


Danced a measure weird and dark. 


And the golden crown of pride ? 


Coldly clasped her limbs around ; 




From breast and hair 


" Led they not forth, in rapture, 


Down fall from her the fair 


A beauteous maiden there t 


Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 


Resplendent as the morning sun. 




Beaming with golden hair } " 


To the sumptuous banquet came 




Every Knight and every Dame ; 


" Well saw I the ancient parents. 


'Twixt son and daughter all distraught. 


Without the crown of pride ; 


With mournful mind 


They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 


The ancient King reclined. 


No maiden was by their side ! " 


Gazed at them in silent tltoughi. 

1 




1 



L'ENVOl 



35 



Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took : 

"Golden wine will make you whole ! 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank : 

" O, that draught was very cool ! " 

Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter ; and their faces 

Colorless grow utterly ; 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father gray. 

He beholds his children die. 

" Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! " 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast : 

" Roses in the spring I gather ! " 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ; who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly 

gather. 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the 

strand. 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O thither, 
Into the Silent Land ? 

Into the Silent Land ! 
To you, ye boundless regions 
Of all perfection ! Tender morning visions 
Of beauteous souls ! The Future's 
pledge and band ! 



Who in Life's battle firm doth stand. 
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth 

stand 
To lead us with a gentle hand 
To the land of the great Departed, 
Into the Silent Land ! 



L'ENVOL 

Ye voices, that arose 
After the Evening's close, 
And whispered to my restless heart re- 
pose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear. 

And say to them, " Be of good cheer ! " 

Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel's j^salm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 

Tongues of the dead, not lost. 
But speaking from death's frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death ei» 
camps ! 




BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 




THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 

" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms. 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise. 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow. 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

" I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold. 

No Skald in song has told. 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse ; 

For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand. 



I, with my childish hand. 

Tamed the gerfalcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound. 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. 

" Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf 's bark. 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 

" But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

"Many a wassail -bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 37 


Draining the oaken pail, 




When of old Hildebrand 


Filled to o'erflowing. 




I ^ked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 


" Once as I told in glee 




To hear my story. 


Tales of the stormy sea, 






Soft eyes did gaze on me. 




" While the brown ale he quaffed. 


Burning yet tender ; 




Loud then the champion laughed. 


And as the white stars shine 




And as the wind-gusts waft 


On the dark Norway pine. 




The sea-foam brightly. 


'- 




^s '* 


,3 


^S^ 


s/rA 


'^^ 


'^^^'' 


V-v^^ . 




m^ 






1 


^fej 


ISHii 


p^l^ 


^m^kjH^^l^in^^ 


-/^g 


^^ 


'hH0gMy 


''iMBn 


r% 


.jHnp 


''>'W m 




'^''-'^Sr^^^Hl '^V^I^HK' 


Ammm 




-^^^■H^^^K. 


V < ihH^w. ^ 


1. ""i"* 


-iitjfcm^^^^^Bt^tlBWBix 


\ 'iPSRi_ 


iHMf 


■^^^^^^■<19l9B^' 


" ' Mi ^^^ 


^I^^hm 


'^Wm- 


f 


kii^^^^^¥ 


\mL- 


A 


fs^Hwyf 


\^^^P0sH^i'' 


"^ t 


^HH^v^H^^^^Hj '^^y^J 


■ ''T^fe 


^^MJ 


BI^^^KP^ 


"■ -Tr, -^^ 


^^9 


^^^^^BK/|m^ 


■ l:xw^ 


P?^^ 


^d||Bp^iyr~! ■' 


--.^ 


""--r 


■5^->--" 


On that dark heart of mine 




So the loud laugh of scorn, 


Fell their soft splendor. 




Out of those lips unshorn. 
From the deep drinking-horn 


" I wooed the blue-eyed maid. 




Blew the foam lightly. 


Yielding, yet half afraid. 






And in the forest's shade 




" She was a Prince's child. 


Our vows were plighted. 




I but a Viking wild, 


Under its loosened vest 




And though she blushed and smiled. 


Fluttered her little breast. 




I was discarded ! 


Like birds within their nest 




Should not the dove so white 


By the hawk frighted. 




Follow the sea-mew's flight. 
Why did they leave that night 


" Bright in her father's hall 




I ler nest unguarded ? 


Shields gleamed upon the wall, 






Loud sang the minstrels all, 




" Scarce had I put to sea. 


Chanting his glory ; 




Bearing the maid with me, — 



38 BALLADS AND 


OTHER POEMS. 




Fairest of all was she 


Struck we her ribs of steel ; 




Among the Norsemen ! — 


Down her black hulk did reel 




When on the white sea-strand, 


Through the black water ! 




Waving his armed hand, 






Saw we old Hildebrand, 


" As with his wings aslant, 




With twenty horsemen. 


Sails the fierce cormorant. 
Seeking some rocky haunt. 




" Then launched they to the blast, 


With his prey laden. 




Bent like a reed each mast, 


So toward the open main, 




Yet we were gaining fast, 


Beating to sea again, 




^^^^^ 






When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

" And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail, 

Death without quarter ! 
Midships with iron keel 



Through the wild hurricane. 
Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 

Stretching to leeward ; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower. 
Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking seaward. 



I 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



39 



" There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 

" Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to me were men, 
The sunlight hateful ! 



In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear. 
Fell I upon my spear, 
O, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars 
Bursting these prison bars. 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul. 
Skoal! to the Northland ! skoal I" 

Thus the tale ended. 




THE WRECK OF THE HESPE- 
RUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 
That sailed the wintry sea ; 

And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter 
To bear him company. 



Blue were her eyes as the fairy-fla.x, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn 
buds. 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
His pipe was in his month, 



4° 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



And he watched how the veering flaw 
did blow 
The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

" I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring. 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his 
pipe. 
And a scornful laucrh laughed he. 



For I can weather the roughest gale 
That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's 
coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
" 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound 
coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 




Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a fright- 
ed steed. 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither! come hither! my little 
daughter. 
And do not tremble so ; 



" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be .' " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot 
live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and 
stark. 
With his face turned to the skies. 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 



41 



The lantern gleamed through the gleam- 
ing snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and 
l^rayed 
That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled 
the wave, 
On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear. 
Through the whistling sleet and 
snow. 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf, 
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck. 

And a whooping billow swept the crew 
Like icicles from her deck. 



She struck where the white and fleecy 
waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and 
sank. 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair. 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 
The salt tears in her eyes ; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea 
weed. 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 




THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord 

Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 

He rises at the banquet board, 

And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 

" Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



The butler hears the words with pain, 
The house's oldest seneschal, 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking-glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 

Then said the Lord : " This glass to 

praise, 
Fill with red wine from Portugal ! " 



42 BALLADS AND 


OTHER POEMS. 


The graybeard with trembling hand 


Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 


obeys ; 


In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 


A purple light shines over all, 


One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 


It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 




Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light : 


THE ELECTED KNIGHT. 


" This glass of flashing crystal tall 




Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 


FROM THE DANISH. 


She wrote in it. If this glass doth fall, 




Farewell then, Luc/c of Edenhall ! 


Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain. 




Full seven miles broad and seven miles 


" 'T was right a goblet the Fate should be 


wide. 


Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 


But never, ah never can meet with the 


Deep draughts drink we right willingly ; 


mail 


And willingly ring, with merry call, 


A tilt with him dare ride. 


Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Eden- 




hall ! " 


He saw under the hillside 




A Knight full well equipped ; 


First rings it deep, and full, and mild. 


His steed was black, his helm was 


Like to the song of a nightingale ; 


barred ; 


Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 


He was riding at full speed. 


Then mutters at last like the thunder's 




fall. 


He wore upon his spurs 


The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 


Twelve little golden birds ; 




Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 


" For its keeper takes a race of might. 


And there sat all the birds and sang. 


The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 




It has lasted longer than is right ; 


He wore upon his mail 


Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than 


Twelve little golden wheels ; 


all 


Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 


Will I try the Luck of Edenhall ; " 


And round and round the wheels they 




flew. 


As the goblet ringing flies apart. 




Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall ; 


He wore before his breast 


And through the rift, the wild flames start ; 


A lance that was poised in rest ; 


The guests in dust are scattered all, 


And it was sharper than diamond-stone, 


With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 


It made Sir Oluf 's heart to groan. 


In storms the foe, with fire and sword ; 


He wore upon his helm 


He in the night had scaled the wall. 


A wreath of ruddy gold ; 


Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 


And that gave him the Maidens Three, 


But holds in his hand the crystal tall. 


The youngest was fair to behold. 


The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 






Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 


On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 


If he were come from heaven down ; 


The graybeard in the desert hall, 


"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he. 


He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, 


" So will I yield me unto thee." 


He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 




The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 


" I am not Christ the Great, 




Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 


"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall 


I am an Unknown Knight, 


aside. 


Three modest Maidens have me be- 


Down must the stately columns fall ; 


dight." 






THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUFFER. 



43 



" Art thou a Knight elected, 

And have three Maidens thee bedight ; 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 

For all the Maidens' honor ! " 

The first tilt they together rode 
They put their steeds to the test ; 

The second tilt they together rode. 
They proved their manhood best. 



The third tilt they together rode. 
Neither of them would yield ; 

The fourth tilt they together rode. 
They both fell on the field. 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 

Now sit the Maidens in the high tower. 
The youngest sorrows till death. 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 

FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER. 

Pen TECOST, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village 

Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. On the spire of the belfry, 

Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun 

Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. 

Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with roses. 

Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brooklet 

Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace ! with lips rosy-tinted 

Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches 

Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. 

Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven arbor 

Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon each cross of iron 

Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. 

Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed, 

(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with blossoms. 

Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, 

Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children's children, 

So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron 

Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes. 

While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 

Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 

When the young, their parents' hope, and the loved-ones of heaven. 

Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. 

Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust was 

Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. 

There stood the church like a garden ; the Feast of the Leafy Pavilions 

Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall 

Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's pulpit of oak-wood 

Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed with silver. 

Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. 

But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Horberg, 

Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling tresses of angels 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling. 

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. 

Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging crowd was assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy preaching. 



44 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, 

Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 

Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle, 

So cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with one voice 

Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 

Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the North-land 

Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its mighty pinions 

Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven. 

And each face did shine like the Holy One's face upon Tabor. 

Lo ! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. 

Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a Christianly plainness 

Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. 

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 

Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur 

Lay on his forehead as clear as on moss-covered gravestone a sunbeam. 

As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) 

Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, 

Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man ; 

Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his tresses of silver. 

All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. 

But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man 

Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, 
Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. 
Many a moving word and warning, that out of the heart came. 
Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. 
Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered the chancel. 
Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their jjlaces, 
Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. 
But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies, 
Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the dififident maidens, — 
Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pavement. 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the beginning 
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the old man's 
Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal 
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. 
Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Redeemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them, 
And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words. 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple. 
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 
E'en as the green-growing bud unfolds when spring-tide approaches. 
Leaf by leaf puts forth, and, wanned by the radiant sunshine. 
Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom 
Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, 
So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation. 
Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers 
Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar ; — and straightway transfigured 
<So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 



I 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 45 



Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judgment 
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward descending. 
Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to him were transparent 
Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. 
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he questioned. 

"This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye 
Lay on your mothers' breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven. 
Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor 
Downward rains from the heaven ; — to-day on the threshold of childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election. 
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence. 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation departeth 
Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, before ye make answer ! 
Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; the multitude hears you, 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the Judge everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. 
Thus then, — believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created .' 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united .' 
Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise I) to cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother } 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, 
Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, 
Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness ? 
Will ye promise me this before God and man ? " — With a clear voice 
Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with lips softly-breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the Teacher 
Clouds with the lightnings therein, and he spake in accents more gentle. 
Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of heaven be ye welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters ! 
Yet, — for what reason not children ? Of such is the kingdom of heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, 
Ruling them all as his household, — forgiving in turn and chastising, 
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. 
Blest are the pure before God ! Upon purity and upon virtue 
Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from on high is descended. 
Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine. 
Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for. 
O, as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in Age's chill valley, 
O, how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and long to turn backward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven, 



46 BALLADS AND OTHER FOEMS. 



Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven ! 

Seventy years have I Hved already ; the Father eternal 

Gave me gladness and care ; but the loveliest hours of existence, 

When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known them. 

Known them all again ; — they were my childhood's acquaintance. 

Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence. 

Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man's childhood. 

Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed. 

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily ; on life's roaring billows 

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not, in the ship she is sleeping. 

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; in the desert 

Angels descend and minister unto her ; she herself knoweth 

Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows faithful and humble. 

Follows so long as she may her friend ; O do not reject her. 

For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. — 

Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and willingly flieth incessant 

'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his Father's manifold mansions. 

Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the flowerets, 

Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the winged angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and homesick for heaven 

Longs the wanderer again ; and the Spirit's longings are worship ; 

Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty. 

Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us. 

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, 

Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sorrowing children 

Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and helps and consoles them. 

Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us. 

Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful Fortune 

Kneels before the Eternal's throne ; and, with hands interfolded, 

Praises thankful and moved the only Giver of blessings. 

Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven ? 

What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it has not received .'' 

Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs adoring 

Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of Him who 

Hung his masonry pendent on naught, when the world he created. 

Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory. 

Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven. 

Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke of midnight, millenniums 

Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, but counts them as nothing 

Who shall stand in his presence .-' The wrath of the Judge is terrific, 

Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he speaks in his anger 

Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck. 

Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children .'' This awful avenger. 

Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not in the earthquake, 

Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. 

Love is the root of creation ; God's essence ; worlds without number 

Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them for this purpose only. 

Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed forth his spirit 

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 

Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven. 



I 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 47 



Quench, O quench not that flame ! It is the breath of your being. 

Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor mother 

Loved you, as God has loved you ; for 't was that you may be hapjjy 

Gave he his only Son. When he bowed down his head in the death-hour 

Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then was completed. 

Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing 

Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising 

Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 

Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's enigma, — Atonement ! 

Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love is Atonement. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father ; 

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection : 

Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that loveth is willing ; 

Perfect was before God, and jierfect is Love, and Love only. 

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy brethren ; 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead .' 

Keadest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he not sailing 

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 

By the same stars that guide thee t Why shouldst thou hate then thy brother .> 

Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 't is sweet to stammer one letter 

Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness ! 

Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his temples .> 

Earnestly prayed for his foes, for his murderers .' Say, dost thou know him ? 

Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example. 

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings. 

Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heavenly Shepherd 

Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 

Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but Love among mortals 

Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, 

Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 

Hope, — so is called upon earth, his recompense, — Hope, the befriending. 

Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful 

Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it 

Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows ! 

Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise. 

Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, 

Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope been transfigured. 

Groping no longer in night ; she is Faith, she is living assurance. 

Faith is enlightened Hope ; she is light, is the eye of affection. 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. 

Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew's, 

For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its stable foundation 

Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinkcth 

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. 

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic, 

Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all js her homestead. 

Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow spontaneous 

Even as day does the sun ; the Right from the Good is an offspring, 

Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are no more than 

Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate spring-tide. 

Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand and bear witness 



48 BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 

Not what they seemed, — but what they were only. Blessed is he who 

Hears their confession secure ; they are mute upon earth until death's hand 

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm you .' 

Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only 

More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading 

Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affection, 

Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its Father. 

Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly his pinions. 

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them ! I fear not before him. 

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and face to face standing 

Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors ; 

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic. 

Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne all transfigured, 

Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, 

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. 

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather, 

Never forgets he the weary ; — then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter ! 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise. 

Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; earth shall ye heed not ; 

Earth is but dust and heaven is light ; I have pledged you to heaven. 

God of the universe, hear me ! thou fountain of Love everlasting. 

Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my prayer to thy heaven ! 

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these. 

Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved them all like a father. 

May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salvation. 

Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word ; again may they know me. 

Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them. 

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness, 

Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me ! " 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at the beck of the old man 
Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure. 
Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly 
With him the children read ; at the close, with tremulous accents, 
Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. 
Now should have ended his task for the day ; the following Sunday 
Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper. 
Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his 
Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward ; while thoughts high and holy 
Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. 
" On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall rest in the graveyard ! 
Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, 
Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? the hour is accomplished. 
Warm is the heart ; — I will ! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven. 
What I began accomplish I now ; what failing therein is 
I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father. 
Say to me only, ye children, ye. denizens new-come in heaven. 
Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement .' 
What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often. 
Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 
Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgressions 
Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the beginning 
Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er the 



I 



THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 49 

Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; in the Heart the Atonement. 

Infinite is the fall, — the Atonement infinite likewise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward. 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. 

Sin is brought forth full-grown ; but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms 

Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven and of angels. 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in the harp's strings. 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer's finger. 

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, 

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all resplendent, 

Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o'ercomes her. 

Downward to earth he came, and, transfigured, thence reascended. 

Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still lives in the Spirit, 

Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. 

Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. 

Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting 

Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. 

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed 

Lieth forgiveness enshrined ; the intention alone of amendment 

Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all 

Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended. 

Penitence weeping and praying ; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows 

Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, mankind by Atonement 

Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body. 

And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he eateth and drinketh 

Death and doom ! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father ! 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement ? " 

Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children, 

" Yes ! " with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications, 

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem : 

" O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions. 

Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have mercy upon us ! " 

Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids. 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. 

O, then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of midday. 

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the churchyard 

Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver. 

But in the children (I noted it well ; I knew it) there ran a 

Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members. 

Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it 

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; they saw there 

Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. 

Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds 

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and their iiices- 
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely. 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings. 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. 
4 



50 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 




THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat. 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face. 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from mom till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 



You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow. 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 



51 




It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing. 

Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 



Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 




52 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE RAINY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering 

wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 



My thoughts still cling to the mouldering 

Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the 

blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 




ENDYMION. 

The rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green. 
With shadows brown between. 

And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams. 



Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 

On such a tranquil night as this. 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When, sleeping in the grove. 
He dreamed not of her love. 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought. 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 



53 



Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

In silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows 
deep. 

Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep. 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 



O weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes ! 
O drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain. 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate, 

But some heart, though unknown, 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings. 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 

And whispers, in its song, 

" Where hast thou stayed so long ! " 




BLIND BARTIMEUS. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 

Say, " It is Christ of Nazareth ! " 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

'iTjffoi}, i\ii\(T6v /j.e ! 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd. 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee ! " 
@S.paeif eyeipai, <pu)ve7 ere ! 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, " What wilt thou at my 
hands ? " 



And he replies, " O give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight ! " 
And Jesus answers, "TTraye • 
'H wiffris aov fffcrcoKi ce ! 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery. 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 
'iTjffoi}, i\fr)a6v fie ! 
&dp<rei, tytipat, iiirayf ! 
'H iriffTis ffov ffeffwKf af ! 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES. 

River ! that in silence windest 

Through the meadows, bright and free. 

Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 



54 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



Four long years of mingled feeling, 


I have felt my heart beat lightej. 


Half in rest, and half in strife, 


And leap onward with thy stream. 


I have seen thy waters stealing 




Onward, like the stream of life. 


Not for this alone I love thee. 




Nor because thy waves of blue 


Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 


From celestial seas above thee 


Many a lesson, deep and long ; 


Take their own celestial hue. 


Thou hast been a generous giver ; 




I can give thee but a song. 


Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee 




And thy waters disappear, 


Oft in sadness and in illness, 


Friends I love have dwelt beside thee 


I have watched thy current glide, 


And have made thy margin dear. 


Till the beauty of its stillness 




Overflowed me, like a tide. 


More than this ; — thy name reminds me 




Of three friends, all true and tried ; 


And in better hours and brighter, 


And that name, like magic, binds me 


When I saw thy waters gleam, 


Closer, closer to thy side. 



Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start. 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'T is for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee : 
Thou hast been a generous giver. 

Take this idle song from me. 







MAIDENHOOD. 



55 




EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 

As through an Alpine village passed 

A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and 

ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath. 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 

Of household fires gleam warm and 

bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the Pass ! " the old man 

said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior ! 

" O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast 1 " 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 



"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch I 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one. 
As the braided streamlets run ! 



56 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 




Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet. 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem. 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye. 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 



O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon. 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered : — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 



57 



O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 



And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God hou art 




GOD'S-ACRE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which 
calls 
The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is 
just ; 
It consecrates each grave within its walls. 
And breathes a benison o'er the sleep- 
ing dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name im- 
parts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave 
have sown 
The seed that they had garnered in 
their hearts. 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their 
own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast. 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 
At the great harvest, when the archan- 
gel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and 
grain. 



Then shall the good stand in immoital 
bloom. 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
And each bright blossom mingle its per- 
fume 
With that of flowers, which never 
bloomed on earth. 

With thy nide ploughshare, Death, turn 
up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we 
sow ; 
This is the field and Acre of our God, 
This is the place where human har- 
vests grow ! 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER. 

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 

Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 



58 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 


But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 


I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 


Two locks — and they are wondrous fair — 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair. 

The blond is from the child. 


The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 


And when I see that lock of gold. 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



'I *"•> 




IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY. 

No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano. 

Spanish Proverb. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear. 
The darting swallows soar and sing. 

And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring. 



So blue yon winding river flows. 
It seems an outlet from the sky. 

Where waiting till the west-wind blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new ; — the buds, the leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest. 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 



59 



All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 



Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
For O, it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth. 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 







THE GOBLET OF LIFE. 

Filled is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart. 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart. 
Are running all to waste. 

And as it mantling passes round. 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned. 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 



Are in its waters steeped and drownejj. 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers. 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press. 
The leaves that give it bitterness. 
Nor prize the colored waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give I 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show. 



6o 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



How bitter are the drops of woe, 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate 

fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 

Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 

Our portion of the weight of care 



That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery. 
Longing, and yet afraid to die, 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief. 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our Life is brief. 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the reliefi 
Then sleep we side by side. 



I 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, lS^a, I had 
not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appro- 
priate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a 
great and good man.] 



TO WILLIAM E. CHAl^NING. 

The pages of thy book I read, 

And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 

" Servant of God ! well done ! " 

Well done ! Thy words are great and bold ; 

At times they seem to me. 
Like Luther's, in the days of old, 

Half-battles for the free. 

Go on, until this land revokes 
The old and chartered Lie, 



The feudal curse, whose whips and 
yokes 
Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side 

Speaking in tones of might, 
Like the prophetic voice, that cried 

To John in Patmos, " Write ! " 

Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ; 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless 
Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse 1 




THE SLAVE'S DREAM. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, 
His sickle in his hand ; 



His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 

He saw his Native Land. 



62 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



Wide through the landscape of his 
dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand ; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his 
cheeks, 

They held him by the hand ! — ' 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank. 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of 
steel 

Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag, 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their 
flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew. 
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 

And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar, 

And the hyena scream. 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the 
reeds 
Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of 
drums. 
Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues, 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried 
aloud. 

With a voice so wild and free. 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip, 

Nor the burning heat of day ; 
For Death had illumined the Land of 
Sleep, 



And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 
Had broken and thrown away ! 



THE GOOD PART, 

THAT 5hALL not be TA«vEN AWAY. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa s side. 

In valleys green and cool ; 
And all her hope and all her pride 

Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above. 

Though not of earth, encircles there 
All things with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save ; 

To cast the captive's chains aside 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 
When all men shall be free ; 

And musical, as silver bells. 
Their falling chains shall be. 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty. 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 

For she was rich, and gave up all 

To break the iron bands 
Of those who waited in her hall. 

And labored in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped. 

While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease. 
That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT 



63 




THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 

The hunted Negro lay ; 
He saw the fire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 

And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms 
shine, 
In bulrush and in brake ; 
Where waving mosses shroud the pine, 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous 
vine 
Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass. 

Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled 
grass, 
Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 
On his forehead he bore the brand of 

shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled 
frame. 
Were the livery of disgrace. 

All things above were bright and fair, 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there. 



And wild-birds filled the echoing air 
With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 

From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain. 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT MID- 
NIGHT. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved. 
Sang of Israel's victory, 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when niglit is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 
When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen. 



64 



POEMS ON SLAVERY. 



And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 



THE QUADROON GIRL. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon 
Lay moored with idle sail ; 

He waited for the rising moon, 
And for the evening gale. 






.,r 



The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,. 
He seemed in haste to go. 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides, 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised. 

In timid attitude, 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light. 
Her arms and neck were bare ; 



=^ ,Jf4 -(VViS^ 




Under the shore his boat was tied, 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Into the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice. 
Reached them from time to time. 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 



No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, 
And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her lips there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint. 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint. 

" The soil is barren, — the farm is old ; * 
The thoughtful Planter said ; 

Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, 
And then upon the maid. 



THE WARNING. 



6S 



His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains : 
For he knew whose passions gave her 
life. 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 

But the voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the glittering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's 
cheek, 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand, 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



THE WITNESSES. 

In Ocean's wide domains, 

Half buried in the sands. 
Lie skeletons in chains. 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 

Deeper than plummet lies. 
Float ships, with all their crews. 

No more to sink nor rise. 

There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves ; 

They gleam from the abyss ; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains. 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 
In deserts makes its prey ; 



Murders, that with affright 

Scare school-boys from their play 1 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds, 

That choke Life's groaning tide 1 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the abyss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 



THE WARNING. 

Beware ! The Israelite of old, who tore 
The lion in his path, — when, poor and 
blind, 
He saw the blessed light of heaven no 
more. 
Shorn of his noble strength and forced 
to grind 
In prison, and at last led forth to be 
A pander to Philistine revelry, — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 
His desperate hands, and in its over- 
throw 

Destroyed himself, and with him those 
who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest 
of all. 

Expired, and thousands perished in the 
fall! 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land. 
Shorn of his strength, and bound in 
bonds of steel. 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his 
hand. 
And shake the pillars of this Common- 
weal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish 
lies. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


DRAMATIS 


PERSONS. 


Victorian 1 

Hypolito ) ' 


Students of Alcala. 




The Count of Lara I . . . 
Don Carlos 1 ' ' ' 


. Gentlemen of Madrid. 


The Archbishop of Toledo. 




A Cardinal. 




Beltran Cruzado .... 


. Count of the Gypsies. 


Bartolomk Roman .... 


A young Gypsy. 


The Padre Cura of Gaudarrama. 




Pedro Cresi'O 


. Alcalde. 


Pancho .,...•, 


, m m A Iguctcil, 


Francisco ...... 


« • ■ • LftfCi's SsTVO^ftt, 


Chispa ....... 


• • V^icioy tuft's Servant* 


Baltasar 


, Innkeeper, 


Preciosa 


A Gypsy girl. 


Angelica ...... 


% , . * -A poor girl* 


Maktina 


■ The Pcicire CtircC s fticct* 


Dolores 


. Pr-fcin.<:n.\<: ■utn.id. 


Gypsies, Musicians, etc. 1 


ACT I. 


There were three duels fought in tht 




first act. 


Scene I. — The Count of Lara's ckat?i- 


Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, 


bers. Night. The CoUNT in his dress- 


Laying their hands upon their hearts, and 


ing-gown, smoking and conversing with 


saying, 


Don Carlos. 


" O, I am dead ! " a lover in a closet, 




An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, 


Lara. You were not at the play to- 


A Dona Inez with a black mantilla, 


night, Don Carlos ; 


Followed at twilight by an unknown 


How happened it ? 


lover, 


Don C. I had engagements elsewhere. 


Who looks intently where he knows she 


Pray who was there ? 


is not ! 


Lara. Why, all the town and court. 


Don C. Of course, the Preciosa 


The house was crowded ; and the busy 


danced to-night ? 


fans 


Lara. And never better. Every foot- 


Among the gayly dressed and perfumed 


step fell 


ladies 


As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 


Fluttered like butterflies among the 


I think the girl extremely beautiful. 


flowers. 


Don C. Almost beyond the privilege 


There was the Countess of Medina Cell ; 


of woman ! 


The Goblin Lady with her Phantom 


I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 


Lover, 


Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and 


Her Lindo Don Diego ; Dona Sol, 


her face 


And Dona Serafina, and her cousins. 


As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. 


Don C. What was the play .? 


Lara. May not a saint fall from her 


Lara. It was a dull affair ; 


Paradise, 


One of those comedies in which you see, 


And be no more a saint ? 


As Lope says, the history of the world 


Don C. Why do you ask ? 


Brought down from Genesis to the Day 


Lara. Because I have heard it said 


of Judgment. 


this angel fell, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 67 


And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 


Some pledge and keepsake of her higher 


Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 


nature, 


Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 


And, like the diamond in the dark, re- 


Painted in convents, with the Virgin 


tains 


Mary 


Some quenchless gleam of the celestial 


On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 


light ! 


Don C. You do her wrong ; indeed. 


Lara. Yet Preciosa would have taken 


you do her wrong ! 


the gold. 


She is as virtuous as she is fair. 


Don C. (rising). I do not think so. 


Lara. How credulous you are ! Why 


Lara. \ am sure of it. 


look you, friend. 


But why this haste ? Stay yet a little 


There 's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 


longer. 


In this whole city ! And would you per- 


And fight the battles of your Dulcincx 


suade me 


Don C. 'T is late. I must begone. 


That a mere dancing-girl, who shows 


for if I stay 


herself, 


You will not be persuaded. 


Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for 


Lara. Yes ; persuade me. 


money, 


Don C. No one so deaf as he who will 


And with voluptuous motions fires the 


not hear ! 


blood 


L^ara. No one so blind as he who will 


Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 


not see ! 


A model for her virtue ? 


Don C. And so good night. I wish 


Don C. You forget 


you pleasant dreams. 


She is a Gypsy girl. 


And greater faith in woman. [Exit. 


Lara. And therefore won 


Lara. Greater faith ! 


The easier. 


I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 


Do?i C. Nay, not to be won at all ! 


Victorian is her lover. I believe 


The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes 


That I shall be to-morrow ; and there- 


Is chastity. That is her only virtue. 


after 


Dearer than life she holds it. I remem- 


Another, and another, and another, 


ber 


Chasing each other through her zodiac. 


A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, 


As Taurus chases Aries. 


Whose craft was to betray the young and 
fair ; 


(Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.) 


And yet this woman was above all bribes. 


Well, Francisco, 


And when a noble lord, touched by her 


What speed with Preciosa .' 


beauty, 


Fran. None, my lord. 


The wild and wizard beauty of her race, 


She sends your jewels back, and bids me 


Offered her gold to be what she made 


tell you 


others, 


She is not to be purchased by your 


She turned upon him, with a look of 


gold. 


scorn. 


Lara. Then I will try some other way 


And smote him in the face ! 


to win her. 


Lara. And does that prove 


Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 


That Preciosa is above suspicion ? 


Fran. Yes, my lord ; 


Don C. It proves a nobleman may be 


I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 


repulsed 


Lara. What was he doing there ? 


When he thinks conquest easy. I be- 


Fran. I saw him buy 


lieve 


A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 


That woman, in her deepest degrada- 


Lara. Was there another like it ? 


tion, 


Fran. One so like it 


Holds something sacred, something un- 


I could not choose between them. 


defiled, 


Lara. It is wclL 



68 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



To-morrow morning bring that ring to 

me. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. 

\Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A street in Madrid. Enter 
Chispa, followed by musicians, with a 
bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. 

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas ! and a 
plague on all lovers who ramble about at 
night, drinking the elements, instead of 
sleeping quietly in their beds. Every 
dead man to his cemetery, say I ; and 
every friar to his monastery. Now, here's 
my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow- 
keeper, and to-day a gentleman ; yester- 
day a student, and to-day a lover ; and I 
must be up later than the nightingale, for 
as the abbot sings so must the sacristan 
respond. God grant he may soon be 
married, for then shall all this serenading 
cease. Ay, marry ! marry ! marry ! 
Mother, what does marry mean ? It 
means to spin, to bear children, and to 
weep, my daughter ! And, of a truth, 
there is something more in matrimony 
than the wedding-ring. {To the musi- 
cians.) And now, gentlemen. Pax vobis- 
cum ! as the ass said to the cabbages. 
Pray, walk this way ; and don't hang 
down your heads. It is no disgrace to 
have an old father and a ragged shirt. 
Now, look you, you are gentlemen who 
lead the life of crickets ; you enjoy hun- 
ger by day and noise by night. Yet, I 
beseech you, for this once be not loud, 
but pathetic ; for it is a serenade to a 
damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the 
Moon. Your object is not to arouse and 
terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling 
dreams. Therefore, each shall not play 
upon his instrument as if it were the only 
one in the universe, but gently, and with 
a certain modesty, according with the 
others. Pray, how may I call thy name, 
friend ? 

First Mus. Ger6nimo Gil, at your ser- 
vice. 

Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine 
that is in it. Pray, Geronimo, is not 
Saturday an unpleasant day with thee ? 

First Miis. Why so .'' 



Chispa. Because I have heard it said 
that Saturday is an unpleasant day with 
those who have but one shirt. More- 
over, I have seen thee at the tavern, and 
if thou canst run as fast as thou canst 
drink, I should like to hunt hares with 
thee. What instrument is that .'' 

First Mus, An Aragonese bagpipe. 

Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the 
bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a mara- 
vedi for playing, and ten for leaving off.'' 

First Mus. No, your honor. 

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other 
instruments have we ? 

Second and Third Mus. We play the 
bandurria. 

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And 
thou t 

Fourth Mus. The fife. 

Chispa. I like it ; it has a cheerful, 
soul -stirring sound, that soars up to my 
lady's window like the song of a swallow. 
And you others ? 

Other Mus. We are the singers, 
please your honor. 

Chispa. You are too many. Do you 
think we are going to sing mass in the 
cathedral of Cordova t Four men can 
make but little use of one shoe, and I see 
not how you can all sing in one song. 
But follow me along the garden wall. 
That is the way my master climbs to the 
lady's window. It is by the Vicar's skirts 
that the Devil climbs into the belfry. 
Come, follow me, and make no noise. 

\Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Preciosa's chamber. She 
stands at the open windoiv. 

Prec. How slowly through the lilac- 
scented air 

Descends the tranquil moon ! Like 
thistle-down 

The vapory clouds float in the peaceful 
sky ; 

And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of 
shade 

The nightingales breathe out their souls 
in song. 

And hark ! what songs of love, what 
soul-like sounds, 

Answer t')eni from lielow ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



69 



Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 
Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! while in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

(Enter Victorian by the balcony.) 

Vict. Poor little dove ! Thou trem- 

blest like a leaf ! 
Free. I am so frightened ! 'T is for 
thee I tremble ! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall by 

night ! 
Did no one see thee ? 

Vict. None, my love, but thou. 

Free. 'T is very dangerous ; and 

when thou art gone 

I chide myself for letting thee come here 

Thus stealthily by night. Where hast 

thou been ? 
Since yesterday I have no news from thee. 
Vict. Since yesterday I 've been in 
Alcala. 
Erelong the time will come, sweet Pre- 

ciosa. 
When that dull distance shall no more 

divide us ; 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by 

night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 



Free. An honest thief, to steal but 

what thou givest. 
Vict. And we shall sit together unmo- 
lested, 
And words of true love pass from tongue 

to tongue, 
As singing birds from one bough to an- 
other. 
Free. That were a life to make time 
envious ! 
I knew that thou wouldst come to me to- 
night. 
I saw thee at the play. 

^ict. Sweet child of air ! 

Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee look 
so fair ? 
Free. Am I not always fair .' 
^''^^- Ay, and so fair 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see 

thee, 
And wish that they were blind. 

Free. I heed them not ; 

When thou art present, I see none but 
thee ! 
Viet. There 's nothing fair nor beauti- 
ful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes it beau- 
tiful. 
Free. And yet thou Icavest me for those 

dusty books. 
Viet. Thou comest between me and 
those books too often ! 
I see thy face in everything I see I 
The paintings in the chapel wear thy 

looks. 
The canticles are changed to sarabands, 
And with the learned doctors of the 

schools 
I see thee dance cachachas. 

F7-ee. In good sooth, 

I dance with learned doctors of the 

schools 
To-morrow morning. 

Vict. And with whom, I pray .' 

Free. A grave and reverend Cardinal, 
and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 

Vict. What mad jcsi 

Is this ? 
Free. It is no jest ; indeed it is not. 
Viet. Prithee explain thyself. 
Free. Why, simply thus. 



70 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Thou knowest the Pope has sent here 
into Spain 

To put a stop to dances on the stage. 
Vict. I have heard it whispered. 
Prec. Now the Cardinal, 

Who for this purpose comes, would fain 
behold 

With his own eyes these dances ; and the 
Archbishop 

Has sent for me — 

Vict. That thou mayst dance before 
them ! 

Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 

The fire of youth into these gray old 
men ! 

'T will be thy proudest conquest ! 

• Prec. Saving one. 

And yet I fear these dances will be 
stopped. 

And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 
Vict. The sweetest beggar that e'er 
asked for alms ; 

With such beseeching eyes, that when I 
saw thee 

I gave my heart away ! 
Prec. Dost thou remember 

When first We met ? 

Vict. It was at Cordova, 

In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sit- 
ting 

Under the orange-trees, beside a foun- 
tain. 
Prec. 'T was Easter-Sunday. The full- 
blossomed trees 

Filled all the air with fragrance and with 
joy. 

The priests were singing, and the organ 
sounded. 

And then anon the great cathedral bell. 

It was the elevation of the Host. 

We both of us fell down upon our knees, 

Under the orange boughs, and prayed 
together. 

T never had been happy till that moment. 
Vict. Thou blessed angel ! 
Prec. And when thou wast gone 

I felt an aching here. I did not speak 

To any one that day. But from that day 

Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 

Vict. Remember him no more. Let 
not his shadow 

Come between thee and me. Sweet 
Preciosa ! 



I loved thee even then, though I was 

silent ! 
Prec. I thought I ne'er should see thy 

face again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sorrow in it. 
Vict. That was the first sound in the 

song of love ! 
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a 

sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the 

strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul. 
And play the prelude of our fate. We 

hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 
Pi'ec. That is my faith. Dost thou 

believe these warnings ? 
Vict. So far as this. Our feelings and 

our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Pres- 
ent. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well. 
And from below comes a scarce audible 

sound, 
So fall our thoughts into the dark Here- 
after, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 
Prec. I have felt it so, but found no 

words to say it ! 
I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 
But thou hast language for all thoughts 

and feelings. 
Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I 

think 
We cannot walk together in this world ! 
The distance that divides us is too great ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the 

stars ; 
I must not hold thee back. 

Vict. Thou little sceptic ! 

Dost thou still doubt ? What I most 

prize in woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 
The intellect is finite ; but the affections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the 

earth ; 
What am I ? Why, a pygmy among 

giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say 

lovest, 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
The world of the affections is thy world, 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



71 



Not that of man's ambition. In that still- 
ness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and 

holy, 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its 

nature, 
But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou con- 
vinced ? 
Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as the good 
love heaven ; 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

Vict. Loving more. 

Prec. I cannot love thee more ; my 

heart is full. 
Vict. Then let it overflow, and I will 
drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A Watchman {in the street). Ave 
Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 
Vict. Hear'st thou that cry .'' 
Prec. It is a hateful sound. 

To scare thee from me ! 

Vict. As the hunter's horn 

Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of 

hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

Prec. Pray, do not go ! 

Vict. I must away to Alcala to-night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

Prec. Fear not ! 

I have no thoughts that do not think of 
thee. 
Vict, (giving her a ring). And to re- 
mind thee of my love, take this ; 
A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 
A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's 
blood. 
Prec. It is an ancient saying, that the 
ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and pre- 
serves 
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the 

pillow. 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, 

alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 



Vict. What convent of barefooted Car- 
melites 
Taught thee so much theology .' 

Prec. (laying her hand upon his month). 
Hush ! hush ! 
Good night ! and may all holy angel? 
guard thee ! 
Vict. Good night ! good night ! Thr>" 
art my guardian angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to pray 
to ! 

(He descends by the balcony.) 

Prec. Take care, and do not hurt thee. 

Art thou safe ? 
Vict, (from the garden). Safe as my 
love for thee ! But art thou safe ? 
Others can climb a balcony by moon- 
light 
As well as I. Pray shut thy window 

close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy 
lips. 
Prec. (throwing do7vn her handker- 
chief). Thou silly child! Take 
this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

Vict. And brings to me 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft 

wind 
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the 

breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 
Prec. Make not thy voyage long. 
Vict. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou art 

the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good 

night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, 
good night ! 
Prec. Good night ! 
Watchman (at a distance). .A-ve Maria 
Purissima ! 

Scene IV. — An inn on the road to Al 
cald. Baltasar asleep on a bench. 
Enter Chispa. 

Chispa. And here we are, half-way to 
Alcala, between cocks and midnight. 
Body o' me ! what an inn this is ! The 



72 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



lights out, and the landlord asleep. Hola ! 
ancient Baltasar ! 

Bal. (waking)- Here I am. 

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one- 
eyed Alcalde in a town without inhab- 
itants. Bring a light, and let me have 
supper. 

Bal. Where is your master .-' 

Chispa. Do not trouble yourself about 
him. We have stopped a moment to 
breathe our horses ; and, if he chooses to 
walk up and down in the open air, looking 
into the sky as one who hears it rain, that 
does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But 
be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every 
man stretches his legs according to the 
length of his coverlet. What have we 
here .'' 

Bal. {setting a light on the table). 
Stewed rabbit. 

Chispa (eating). Conscience of Por- 
talegre ! Stewed kitten, you mean ! 

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, 
with a roasted pear in it. 

Chispa (drinking). Ancient Baltasar, 
amigo ! You know how to cry wine and 
sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing 
but Vino Tinto of La Mancha, with a 
tang of the swine-skin. 

Bal. I swear to you by Saint Simon 
and Judas, it is all as I say. 

Chispa. And I swear to you by Saint 
'Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such 
thing. Moreover, your supper is like the 
hidalgo's dinner, very little meat and a 
great deal of tablecloth. 

Bal. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Chispa. And more noise than nuts. 

Bal. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must have your 
joke, Master Chispa. But shall I not 
ask Don Victorian in, to take a draught 
of the Pedro Ximenes? 

Chispa. No ; you might as well say, 
" Don't-you-want-some .'' " to a dead man. 

Bal. Why does he go so often to 
Madrid ? 

Chispa. For the same reason that he 
eats no supper. He is in love. Were 
you ever in love, Baltasar 1 

Bal. I was never out of it, good 
Chispa. 
It has been the torment of my life. 

Chispa. What ! are you on fire, too, old 



hay-stack } Why, we shall never be able 
to put you out. 

Vict, (without). Chispa ! 

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for 
the cocks are crowing. 

Vict. Ea ! Chispa ! Chispa ! 

Chispa. Ea ! Senor. Come with me, 
ancient Baltasar, and bring water for the 
horses. I will pay for the supper to-mor- 
row. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. — Victorian's chambers at 
Alcald. Hypolito asleep in an arm- 
chair. He awakes slowly. 

Hyp. I must have been asleep ! ay, 

sound asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet 

sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art 

fair, 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it must 

be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray 

Carrillo, 
The only place in which one cannot find 

him 
Is his own cell. Here 's his guitar, that 

seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a 

song. 

(He plays and sings, ) 

Padre Francisco ! 

Padre Francisco ! 

What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 

Here is a pretty young maiden 

Who wants to confess her sins ! 

Open the door and let her come in, 

I will shrive her from every sin. 

(Ettter Victorian.) 

Vict. Padre Hypolito! Padre Hy- 
polito ! 

Hyp. What do you want of Padre Hy- 
polito 1 

Vict. Come, shrive me straight ; for, 
if love be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



73 



I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 

Hyp. The same old tale 

Of the old woman in the chimney-corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, " Come 

here, my child ; 
I '11 tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 
Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full ; 
so full 
That I must speak. 

Hyp. Alas ! that heart of thine 

Is like a scene in the old play ; the cur- 
tain 
Rises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! 
Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, 
thou shouldst say ; 
Those that remained, after the six were 

burned, 
Being held more precious than the nine 

together. 
But listen to my tale. Dost thou remem- 
ber 
The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Romalis in the market-place ? 
Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. 
Vict. Ay, the same. 

Thou knowest how her image haunted 

me 
Long after we returned to Alcala. 
She 's in Madrid. 

Hyp. I know it. 

Vict. And I 'm in love. 

Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when 
thou shouldst be 
In Alcala. 

Vict. O pardon me, my friend. 

If I so long have kept this secret from 

thee ; 
But silence is the charm that guards such 

treasures. 
And, if a word be spoken ere the time, 
They sink again, they were not meant for 
us. 
Hyp. Alas ! alas ! I see thou art in 
love. 
Love keeps the cold out better than a 

cloak. 
It serves for food and raiment. Give a 

Spaniard 
His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa — 
Thou knowest the proverb. But pray 
tell me, lover. 



How speeds thy wooing .•' Is the maiden 

coy ? 
Write her a song, beginning with an 

Ave ; 
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin 

Mary, 

Ave ! cujus calcem dare 
Nee ceiitcniii comviendare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 

Vict. Pray, do not jest ! This is no 
time for it ! 
I am in earnest ! 

Hyp. Seriously enamored .' 

What, ho ! The Primus of great Alcala 
Enamored of a Gypsy .' Tell me frankly, 
How meanest thou .'' 

Vict. I mean it honestly. 

Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 
Vict. Whynot.> 

Hyp. She was betrothed to one Bar- 
tolome. 
If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 

P'ict. They quarrelled. 

And so the matter ended. 

Hyp. But in truth 

Thou wilt not marry her. 

Vict. In truth I will. 

The angels sang in heaven when she was 

born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I '11 stoop for it ; but when I wear it here, 
Set on my forehead like the morning star, 
The world may wonder, but it will not 
laugh. 
Hyp. If thou wcar'st nothing else upon 
thy forehead, 
'T will be indeed a wonder. 

Vict. Out upon thee 

With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray tell 

me. 
Is there no virtue in the world .' 

//)'/>. Not much. 

What, think'st thou, is she doing at this 

moment ; 
Now, while we speak of her .' 

Vict. She lies asleep, 

And from her parted lips her gentle 

breath 
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of 
flowers. 



74 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Her tender limbs are still, and on her 


Of love and anger, like the maid of Col- 


breast 


chis, 


The cross she prayed to, ere she fell 


Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 


asleep. 


Having won that golden fleece, a woman's 


Rises and falls with the soft tide of 


love, 


dreams, 


Desertest for this Glauce. 


Like a light barge safe moored. 


Vict. Hold thy peace ! 


Hyp. Which means, in prose, 


She cares not for me. She may wed an- 


She 's sleeping with her mouth a little 


other. 


open ! 


Or go into a convent, and, thus dying. 


Vict. O, would I had the old magician's 


Marry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 


glass 


Hyp. [rising). And so, good night 1 


To see her as she lies in childlike sleep ! 


Good morning, I should say. 


Hyp. And wouldst thou venture ? 
Vict. Ay, indeed I would ! 


[Clock strikes three.) 


Hyp. Thou art courageous. Hast thou 


Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace 


e'er reflected 


of Time 


How much lies hidden in that one word, 


Knocks at the golden portals of the day ! 


vow? 


And so, once more, good night ! We '11 


Vict. Yes ; all the awful mystery of 


speak more largely 


Life! 


Of Preciosa when we meet again. 


I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 


Get thee to bed, and the magician. Sleep, 


That could we, by some spell of magic, 


Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, 


change 


In all her loveliness. Good night ! 


The world and its inhabitants to stone, 


[Exit. 


In the same attitudes they now are in. 


Vict. Good night ! 


What fearful glances downward might we 


But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 


cast 
Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 


( Throws hitnself into the arm-chair which 
Hypolito has left, and lays a large book 
open upon his knees.) 


What groups should we behold about the 
death-bed. 


Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 


Must read, or sit in revery and watch 


What joyful welcomes, and what sad fare- 


The changing color of the waves that 


wells ! 


break 


What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 


Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind ! 


What visible joy or anguish in those 


Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 


cheeks ! 


Making night glorious with your smile, 


What bridal pomps, and what funereal 


where are ye ? 


shows ! 


O, who shall give me, now that ye are 


What foes, like gladiators, fierce and 


gone, 


struggling ! 


Juices of those immortal plants that 


What lovers with their marble lips to- 


bloom 


gether ! 


Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 


Hyp. Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in 


Or teach me where that wondrous man- 


love, 


drake grows 


That is the very point I most should 


Whose magic root, torn from the earth 


dread. 


with groans. 


This magic glass, these magic spells of 


At midnight hour, can scare the fiends 


thine. 


away. 


Might tell a tale were better left untold. 


And make the mind prolific in its fancies ? 


For instance, they might show us thy fair 


I have the wish, but want the will, to act ! 


cousin. 


Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose 


The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 


words 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



75 



Have come to light from the swift river 

of Time, 
Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' 

bed, 
Where is the strength to wield the arms 

ye bore ? 
From the barred visor of Antiquity 
Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 
As from a mirror ! All the means of ac- 
tion — 
The shapeless masses, the materials — 
Lie everywhere about us. What we need 
Is the celestial fire to change the flint 
Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 
That fire is genius ! The rude peasant 

sits 
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 
With charcoal uncouth figures on the 

wall. 
The son of genius comes, foot-sore with 

travel, 
And begs a shelter from the inclement 

night. 
He takes the charcoal from the peasant's 

hand, 
And, by the magic of his touch at once 
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine. 
And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 
It gleams a diamond ! Even thus trans- 
formed, 
Rude popular traditions and old tales 
Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 
Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wan- 
dering bard. 
Who had but a night's lodging for his 

pains. 
But there are brighter dreams than those 

of Fame, 
Which are the dreams of Love ! Out of 

the heart 
Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 
As from some woodland fount a spirit 

rises 
And sinks again into its silent deeps, ( 
Ere the enamored knight can touch her 

robe ! 
'T is this ideal that the soul of man, 
Like the enamored knight beside the 

fountain, 
Waits for upon the margin of Life's 

stream ; 
Waits to behold her rise from the dark 

waters, 



Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how 

many 
Must wait in vain ! The stream flows 

evermore, 
But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 
Yet I, born under a propitious star. 
Have found the bright ideal of my 

dreams. 
Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel, 
Here, as I sit at midnight and alone. 
Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can 

feel 
The pressure of her head ! God's benison 
Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous 

eyes. 
Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that 

bloom at night 
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my 

name ! 

(^Gradually sinks asleep.) 

ACT IL 

Scene I. — PrecIOSA's chamber. Morn- 
ing. Preciosa and Angelica. 

Prec. Why will you go so soon ? Stay 
yet awhile. 
The poor too often tuni away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them with 

a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell 

me more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing from 

me. 
What is your landlord's name .■* 

Ang. The Count of Lara. 

Prec. The Count of Lara ? O, beware 
that man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with 

him ! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold. 

Aug. You know him, then I 

Prec. As much 

As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name without a 

blemish. 
Beware of him ! 

A tor. Alas ! what can I do ? 

I cannot choose my friends. Each word 
of kindness. 



76 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Come whence it may, is welcome to the 


Free. I deserve no thanks. 


poor. 


Thank Heaven, not me. 


Free. Make me your friend. A girl so 


Ang. Both Heaven and you. 


young and fair 


Free. FarewelL 


Should have no friends but those of her 


Remember that you come again to- 


own sex. 


morrow. 


What is your name ? 


Ang. I will. And may the Blessed 


Ang. Angelica. 


Virgin guard you, 


Free. That name 


And all good angels. \Exit. 


Was given you, that you might be an 


Free. May they guard thee too. 


angel 


And all the poor ; for they have need of 


To her who bore you ! When your infant 


angels. 


smile 


Now bring me, dear Dolores, my bas- 


Made her home Paradise, you were her 


quiiia, 


angel. 


My richest maja dress, — my dancing 


O, be an angel still ! She needs that 


dress, 


smile. 


And my most precious jewels ! Make 


So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 


me look 


No one can harm you ! I am a poor girl, 


Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've a 


Whom chance has taken from the public 


prize 


streets. 


To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 


I have no other shield than mine own 




virtue. 


{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 


That is the charm which has protected 


Cruz. Ave Maria ! 


me ! 


Free. O God ! my evil genius ! 


Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 


What seekest thou here to-day .' 


Here on my heart ! It is my guardian 


Cruz. Thyself, — my child. 


angel. 


Free. What is thy will with me ? 


Ang. {rising). I thank you for this 


Cruz. Gold ! gold ! 


counsel, dearest lady. 


Free. I gave thee yesterday ; I have 


Free. Thank me by following it. 


no more. 


Ang. Indeed I will. 


Cruz. The gold of the Busne, — give 


Free. Pray, do not go. I have much 


me his gold ! 


more to say. 


Free. I gave the last in charity to- 


Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not 


day. 


leave her. 


Cruz. That is a foolish lie. 


Free. Some other time, then, when we 


Free. It is the truth. 


meet again. 


Cruz. Curses upon thee ! Thou art 


You must not go away with words alone. 


not my child ! 


{Gives her a purse.) 


Hast thou given gold away, and not to 
me } 


Take this. Would it were more. 


Not to thy father .'' To whom, then } 


Ang. I thank you, lady. 


Free. To one 


Free. No thanks. To-morrow come 


Who needs it more. 


to me again. 


Cruz. No one can need it more. 


I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last 


Free. Thou art not poor. 


time. 


Cruz. What, I, who lurk about 


But what I gain, I promise shall be yours. 


In dismal suburbs and unwholesome 


If that can save you from the Count of 


lanes ; 


Lara. 


I, who am housed worse than the galley 


Ang. my dear lady ! how shall I be 


slave ; 


grateful 


I, who am fed worse than the kennelled 


For so much kindness ? 


hound ; 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran 

Cruzado, — 
Not poor ! 

Free. Thou hast a stout heart and 

strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants ; what 

wouldst thou more ? 
Cruz. The gold of the Busne ! give me 

his gold ! 
Free. Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once 

for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times. 
Never denied thee ; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace ! 
Be merciful, be patient, and erelong 
Thou shalt have more. 

Cniz. And if I have it not. 

Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich 

chambers, 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food. 
And live in idleness ; but go with me. 
Dance the Romalis in the public streets. 
And wander wild again o'er field and fell ; 
For here we stay not long. 
Free. What ! march again .' 
Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the 

crowded town ! 
I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 
Air, — I want air, and sunshine, and blue 

sky. 
The feeling of the breeze upon my face. 
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet. 
And no walls but the far-off mountain 

tops. 
Then I am free and strong, — once more 

myself, 
Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 
Free. God speed thee on thy march ! — 

I cannot go. 
Cruz. Remember who I am, and who 

thou art ! 
Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. 
Bartolome Romdn — 
Free, (with emotion), O, I beseech 

thee ! 
If my obedience and blameless life. 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
One feeling of compassion ; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one 

tone 



That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 

In my behalf, who am a feeble girl. 

Too feeble to resist, and do not force 
me 

To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 

I do not love him ! On my knees I beg 
thee 

To use no violence, nor do in haste 

What cannot be undone ! 

Cruz. O child, child, child I 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 

Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it 

I will not leave thee here in the great 
city 

To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee 
ready 

To go with us ; and until then remem- 
ber 

A watchful eye is on thee. \^Exit. 

Free. Woe is me ! 

I have a strange misgiving in my heart ! 

But that one deed of charity I'll do, 

Befall what may ; they cannot take that 
from me. \Exil. 

Scene II. — A room in the ARCHBISHOP'S 
Falaee. Zy/^' ARCHBISHOP rtW a CAR- 
DINAL seated. 

Arch. Knowing how near it touched 
the public morals, 
And that our age is grown corrupt and 

rotten 
By such e.xcesses, we have sent to Rome, 
Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 
In curing the gross surfeit of the time, 
By seasonable stop put here in Spain 
To bull-fights and lewd dances on the 

stage. 
All this you know. 

Card. Know and approve. 

Arch. And further, 

That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 
The first have been suppressed. 

Card. I trust forever. 

It was a cruel sport. 

Arch. A barbarous pastime. 

Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

Card. Yet the people 

Murmur at this ; and, if the public dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight 
occasion. 



78 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Worse ills might follow than the ills we 

cure. 
As Panem et Cinenses was the cry 
Among the Roman populace of old, 
So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. 
Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 
And therefore have induced your Grace 

to see 
These national dances, ere we interdict 

them. 

{Enter a Servant^ 

Serv. The dancing-girl, and with her 
the musicians 
Your Grace was pleased to order, wait 
without. 
Arch. Bid them come in. Now shall 
your eyes behold 
In what angelic yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

{Enter Preciosa, with a mantle thrown 
Ofver her head. She advances slowly, in 
a modest, half-timid attitude.) 

Card, (aside). O, what a fair and min- 
istering angel 
Was lost to heaven when this sweet 
woman fell ! 
Prec. (kneeling before the Arch- 
bishop). I have obeyed the order 
of your Grace. 
If I intrude upon your better hours, 
I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee. 

And lead thee to a better life. Arise. 
Card, (aside). Her acts are modest, 
and her words discreet ! 
I did not look for this ! Come hither, 

child. 
Is thy name Preciosa .-' 
Prec. Thus I am called. 

Card. That is a Gypsy name. Who 

is thy father ? 
Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of the 

Cales. 
Arch. I have a dim remembrance of 
that man ; 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sun-burnt Ishmael ! 

Card. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 

Prec, Yes ; by the Darro's side 



My childhood passed. I can remembei 

still 
The river, and the mountains capped 

with snow ; 
The villages, where, yet a little child, 
I told the traveller's fortune in the street ; 
The smuggler's horse, the brigand and 

the shepherd ; 
The march across the moor ; the halt at 

noon ; 
The red fire of the evening camp, that 

lighted 
The forest where we slept ; and, further 

back. 
As in a dream or in some former life. 
Gardens and palace walls. 

Arch. 'T is the Alhambra, 

Under whose towers the Gypsy camp 

was pitched. 
But the time wears ; and we would see 

thee dance. 
Pi-ec. Your Grace shall be obeyed. 

(She lays aside her mantilla. The music 
of the cachiicha is played, atid the dance 
begins. The Archbishop and the Car- 
dinal look on with gyavity and an occa- 
sional fro^vn ; then make signs to each 
other ; and, as the dance continues, be- 
come tnore and more pleased and excited ; 
and at length rise from their seats, throw 
their caps in the air, and applaud vehe- 
mently as the scene closes.) 

Scene III. — 77;,? Prado. A long ave- 
nue of trees leading to the gate of A toe ha. 
On the right the dome and spires of a 
convettt. A fountain. Evening. Don 
Carlos and Hypolito meeting. 

Don C. Hola ! good evening, Don 

Hypolito. 
Hyp. And a good evening to my fi-iend, 
Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this 

way. 
I was in search of you. 

Don C. Command me always. 

Hyp. Do you remember, in Quevedo's 
Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of Judg- 
ment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 79 


Don C. I do ; 


^ 

Some living woman, — not a mere 


But what of that? 


ideal, — 


Hyp. I am that wretched man. 


Must wear the outward semblance of his 


Do7i C. You mean to tell me yours 


thought. 


have risen empty ? 


Who is it .> Tell me. 


Hyp. And amen ! said my Cid the 


■^■6'A Well, it is a woman ! 


Campeador. 


But, look you, from the coffer of his heart 


Don C. Pray, how much need you ? 


He brings forth precious jewels to adorn 


Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces 


her. 


Which, with due interest — 


As pious priests adorn some favorite 


Don C. {giving /lis purse). What, am 


saint 


I a Jew 


With gems and gold, until at length she 


To put my moneys out at usury ? 


gleams 


Here is my purse. 


One blaze of glory. Without these, you 


Hyp. Thank you. A pretty purse, 


know, 


Made by the hand of some fair Madri- 


And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll. 


lena ; 


Don C. Well, well ! who is this doll .> 


Perhaps a keepsake. 


Hyp. Why, who do you think ? 


Don C. No, 't is at your service. 


Don C. His cousin Violantc. 


Hyp. Thank you again. Lie there, 


Hyp. Guess again. 


good Chrysostom, 


To ease his laboring heart, in the last 


And with thy golden mouth remind me 


storm 


often, 


He threw her overboard, with all her 


I am the debtor of my friend. 


ingots. 


Don C. But tell me. 


Don C. I cannot guess ; so tell me who 


Come you to-day from Alcala } 


it is. 


Hyp. This moment. 


Hyp. Not I. 


Don C. And pray, how fares the brave 


Don C. Why not > 


Victorian .? 


Hyp. (mysteriously). Why ? Because 


Hyp. Indifferent well ; that is to say. 


Mari Franca 


not well. 


Was married four leagues out of Sala- 


A damsel has ensnared him with the 


manca ! 


glances 


Doft C. Jesting aside, who is it 1 


Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen 


Hyp. Preciosa. 


catch 


Don C. Impossible ! The Count of 


A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 


Lara tells me 


He is in love. 


She is not virtuous. 


Don C. And is it faring ill 


Hyp. Did I say she was ? 


To be in love } 


The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife 


Hyp. In his case very ill. 


Whose name was Messalina, as I think ; 


Don C. Why so > 


Valeria Messalina was her name. 


Hyp. For many reasons. First and 


But hist ! I see him yonder through the 


foremost, 


trees. 


Because he is in love with an ideal ; 


Walking as in a dream. 


A creature of his own imagination ; 


Don C. He comes this way. 


A child of air ; an echo of his heart ; 


Hyp. It has been truly said by some 


And, like a lily on a river floating, 


wise man. 


She floats upon the river of his 


That money, grief, and love cannot be 


thoughts ! 


hidden. 


Don C. A common thing with poets. 
But who is 


(Enter VICTORIAN in front.) 


This floating lily ? For, in fine, some 


Viet. Where'er thy step has passed is 


woman, 


holy ground ! 



8o 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



These groves are sacred I I behold thee 

walking 
Under these shadoxsy trees, where we 

have walked 
At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 
Feel that the place has taken a charm 

from thee. 
And is forever hallowed. 

Hyp. Mark him well ! 

See how he strides away with lordly air, 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim 

Commander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in the 
play. 
Don C. What ho ! Victorian ! 
Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us ? 

Vict. Hola ! amigos ! Faith, I did 
not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos ? 
Don C. At your service ever. 

Vict. How is that young and green- 
eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of "i 

Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 

She has gone back to Cadiz. 
Hyp. Ay de mi ! 

Vict. You are much to blame for let- 
ting her go back. 
A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we some- 
times see 
In evening skies. 

Hyp. But, speaking of green eyes. 

Are thine green ? 

Vict. Not a whit. Why so .' 

Hyp. I think 

The slightest shade of green would be 

becoming. 
For thou art jealous. 

Vict. No, I am not jealous. 

Hyp. Thou shouldst be. 
Vict. Why .' 

Hyp. Because thou art in love. 

And they who are in love are always 

jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

Vict. Marry, is that all .' 

Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don 

Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous .' 

Hyp. Ay, in truth 

I fear there is reason. Be upon thy 
guard. 



I hear it whispered that the Count of 

Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 

Vict. Indeed ! 

Then he will have his labor for his pains. 

Hyp. He does not think so, and Don 

Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

Vict. How 's this, Don Carlos ? 

Don C. Some hints of it I heard from 

his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue, 
As a gay man might speak. 

Vict. Death and damnation ! 

I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, 

no ! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed you 

jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, fare- 
well ! lExit. 
Hyp. Now what a coil is here ! The 

Avenging Child 
Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, 
And the great Moor Calaynos, when he 

rode 
To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 
Were nothing to him ! O hot-headed 

youth ! 
But come ; we will not follow. Let us 

join 
The crowd that pours into the Prado. 

There 
We shall find merrier company ; I see 
The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, 
And fifty fans, that beckon me already. 

\_Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Preciosa's chamber. She 
is sitting, with a book in her hand, ftear 
a table, on which are Jlowers. A bird 
singing in its cage. The CoUNT OF 
Lara enters behind unperceived. 

Free, [reads). 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here, 
I know not what it is makes me so rest- 
less ! 



I 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



8l 



( The bird siitgs.) 

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, 
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon 

singest, 
Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 
I have a gentle jailer. I^ack-a-day ! 

All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching. 
Evermore shall keep thee waking. 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 

Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks 

More hearts are breaking in this world 
of ours 

Than one would say. In distant villages 

And solitudes remote, where winds have 
wafted 

The barbed seeds of love, or birds of pas- 
sage 

Scattered them in their flight, do they 
take root. 

And grow in silence, and in silence per- 
ish. 

Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? 

Or who takes note of every flower that 
dies ? 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come. 

Dolores ! 

{ Turns to lay down her book, and perceives 
the Count.) 

Ha! 
Lara, Sefiora, pardon me ! 

Free. How 's this f Dolores ! 
Lara, Pardon me — 

Free. Dolores ! 

LMra, Be not alarmed ; I found no one 
in waiting. 
If I have been too bold — 

Free, (turning her back upon him). You 
are too bold ! 
Retire ! retire, and leave me ! 

Lara. My dear lady, 

First hear me ! I beseech you, let me 

speak ! 
'T is for your good I come. 

Free, (turning toward him with indig- 
nation). Begone ! begone ! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your 
deeds 

6 



Would make the statues of your ances- 
tors 

Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian 
honor. 

Is it Castilian pride, to steal in horo 

Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong .' 

shame ! shame ! sh.ime ! that you, a 

nobleman, 
Should be so little noble in your thoughts 
As to send jewels here to win my love, 
And think to buy my honor with your 

gold ! 

1 have no words to tell you how I scorn 

you ! 

Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to 
me ! 

Begone, I say ! 

Lara. Be calm ; I will not harm you. 

Free. Because you dare not 

Lara. I dare anything ! 

Therefore beware ! You arc deceived in 
me. 

In this false world, we do not always 
know 

Who are our friends and who our ene- 
mies. 

We all have enemies, and all need 
friends. 

Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 

Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 
Free, If to this 

I owe the honor of the present visit, 

You might have spared the coming. 
Having spoken, 

Once more I beg you, leave mc to my- 
self 
Lara. I thought it but a friendly part 
to tell you 

What strange reports are current here in 
town. 

For my own self, I do not credit them ; 

But there are many who, not knowing 
you. 

Will lend a readier ear. 
Free. There was no need 

That you should take upon yourself the 
duty 

Of telling me these tales. 

Lara. Malicious tongues 

Are ever busy with your name. 

Free, Alas I 

I *ve no protectors. I am a poor girl, 

Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 



82 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



They wound me, yet I cannot shield my- 
self. 

I give no cause for these reports. I live 

Retired ; am visited by none. 

Lara. By none ? 

O, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! 
Prec. How mean you ? 

Lara. Nay, nay ; I will not wound your 
gentle soul 

By the report of idle tales. 
Prec. Speak out ! 

What are these idle tales ? You need 
not spare me. 
Lara. I will deal frankly with you. 
Pardon me ; 

This window, as I think, looks toward 
the street. 

And this into the Prado, does it not .-' 

In yon high house, beyond the garden 
wall, — 

You see the roof there just above the 
trees, — 

There lives a friend, who told me yes- 
terday. 

That on a certain night, — be not offended 

If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 

Climb to your chamber window. You 
are silent ! 

I would not blame you, being young and 
fair — 

{He tries to embrace her. She starts back, 
and draws a dagger from her bosom). 

Prec. Beware ! beware ! I am a Gypsy 

girl! 
Lay not your hand upon me. One step 

nearer 
And I will strike ! 

Lara. Pray you, put up that dagger. 
Fear not. 

Prec. I do not fear. I have a heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 

Lara. Listen to me. 

I come here as your friend, — I am your 

friend, — 
And by a single word can put a stop 
To all those idle tales, and make your 

name 
Spotless as lilies are. Here on my 

knees, 
Fair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 
I love you even to madness, and that 

love 



Has driven me to break the rules of 

custom, 
And force myself unasked into your 

presence. 

(Victorian enters behind.) 

Prec. Rise, Count of Lara ! That is 

not the place 
For such as you are. It becomes you 

not 
To kneel before me. I am strangely 

moved 
To see one of your rank thus low and 

humbled ; 
For your sake I will put aside all anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a woman, 
And as my heart now prompts me. I no 

more 
Will hate you, for all hate is painful to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman's 

glory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 
Lara. O sweet angel ! 

Prec. Ay, in truth. 

Far better than you love yourself or me. 
Lara. Give me some sign of this, — 

the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss your hand ! 

Prec. Nay, come no nearer ! 

The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not deceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not 

such 
As you would offer me. For you come 

here 
To take from me the only thing I have, 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have 

friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant 

hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one 

treasure, 
And you would take that from me, and 

for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make me 
What you would most despise. O sir, 

such love. 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true 

love. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



83 



Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different l<ind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste de- 
sires, 
And bids you look into your heart, and 

see 
How you do wrong that better nature in 

you, 
And grieve your soul with sin. 

Lara. I swear to you, 

I would not harm you ; I would only love 

you. 
f would not take your honor, but restore 

it, 
And in return I ask but some slight mark 
Of your affection. If indeed you love me, 
As you confess you do, O let me thus 
With this embrace — 

Vict, (rushing forward). Hold ! hold ! 
This is too much. 
What means this outrage '*. 

Lara. First, what right have you 

To question thus a nobleman of Spain .' 
Vict. I too am noble, and you are no 
more ! 
Out of my sight ! 

Lara. Are you the master here ? 
Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, when 
the wrong of others 
Gives me the right ! 

Prec. {to Lara). Go ! I beseech you, go ! 
Vict. I shall have business with you. 

Count, anon ! 
Lara. You cannot come too soon ! 

\Exit. 
Prec. Victorian ! 

we have been betrayed ! 

Vict. Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 

'T is I have been betrayed, not we ! — not 
we ! 
Prec, Dost thou imagine — 
Vict. I imagine nothing ; 

1 see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

Prec. O speak not in that tone ! 

It wounds me deeply. 

Vict. 'T was not meant to flatter. 

Prec. Too well thou knowest the pres- 
ence of that man 
Is hateful to me ! 

Vict. Yet I saw thee stand 

And listen to liim, when he told his love. 



Prec. I did not heed his words. 

Vict. Indeed thou didst, 

And answeredst them with love. 

Prec. Hadst thou heard all — 

I'ict. I heard enough. 

Prec. Be not so angry with me. 

Vict. I am not angry ; I am very 
calm. 

Prec. If thou wilt let me speak — 

Vict. Nay, say no more. 

I know too much already. Thou art false ! 
I do not like these Gypsy marriages ! 
Where is the ring I gave thee t 

Prec. In my casket. 

Vict. There let it rest ! I would not 
have thee wear it : 
I thought thee spotless, and thou art 
polluted ! 

Prec. I call the Heavens to witness — 

Vict. Nay, nay, nay ! 

Take not the name of Heaven upon thy 

lips ! 
They are forsworn ! 

Prec. Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 

Vict. I gave up all for thee ; myself, 
my fame. 
My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 
And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go 

on ! 
Laugh at my folly with thy paramour. 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee. 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was ! 

{He casts her from him and rushes out.) 

Prec. And this from thee ! 

{Scene closes.) 

Scene V. — The Count of Lara's 
rooms. Etiter the Cov^V. 

Lara. There 's nothing in this world 

so sweet as love, 
And next to love the sweetest thing is 

hate! 
I've learned to hate, and therefore am 

revenged. 
A silly girl to play the prude with me ! 
The fire that I have kindled — 

{Enter FRANCISCO.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan .' 



84 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Fran. Good, my lord ; 

He will be present. 

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos ? 

Fran. Was not at home. 
Lara. How with the rest .'' 

Fran. I 've found 

The men you wanted. They will all be 

there, 
And at the given signal raise a whirl- 
wind 
Of such discordant noises, that the dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Pre- 

ciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall 

not close 
Thine eyes this night ! Give me my cloak 
and sword. \_Exeunt. 

Scene VI. — A retired spot beyond the 
city gates. Enter VICTORIAN and Hy- 
POLITO. 

Viet. O shame ! O shame ! Why do 

I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sunshine 

mocks me, 
And voices, and familiar sights and 

sounds 
Cry, " Hide thyself ! " O what a thin 

partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world the 

knowledge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in 

darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears 

are windows, 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. 

Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame. 
And in derision seems to smile at me ! 
Hyp. Did I not caution thee ? Did I 

not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her virtue ? 
Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may be 

wrong, 
We may be over-hasty in condemning ! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 
I/yp. And therefore is she cursed, lov- 
ing him. 
Vict. She does not love him ! 'T is for 

gold ! for gold ! 



Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the public 

streets 
He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave 

him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 

Vict. She had that ring from me ! 

God ! she is false ! 
But I will be revenged ! The hour is 

passed. 
Where stays the coward .'' 

Hyp. Nay, he is no coward ; 

A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I 've seen him play with swords ; it is his 

pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confident. 
He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here he 

comes. 

(Enter Y,k^k, followed by FRANCISCO.) 

La7-a. Good evening, gentlemen. 
Hyp. Good evening, Count. 

Lara. I trust I have not kept you long 

in waiting. 
Vict. Not long, and yet too long. Are 

you prepared } 
Lara. I am. 

Hyp. It grieves me much to 

see this quarrel 
Between you, gentlemen. Is there no 

way 
Left open to accord this difference, 
But you must make one with your 
swords .'' 
Vict. No ! none ! 

I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too 

long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these 

tongues of steel 
End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir 
Count ! 

( They fight. VICTORIAN disarms the 
Count.) 

Your life is mine ; and what shall now 

withhold me 
From sending your vile soul to its ac- 
count ? 
Lara. Strike ! strike ! 
Vict. You are disarmed. I will not 
kill you. 
I will not murder you. Take up your 
sword. 



THE SPAxVISH STUDENT. 



85 



(Francisco hands the Count his sword, 
and Hypolito interposes.) 

Hyp. Enough ! Let it end here ! The 
Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and 

Victorian 
A generous one, as ever. Now be 

friends. 
Put up your swords ; for, to speak frankly 

to you. 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 

Lata. I am content. 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, 

Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to 

this. 

Vict. Nay, something more than that. 

Lara. I understand you. 

Therein I did not mean to cross your 

path. 
To me the door stood open, as to others. 
But, had I known the girl belonged to 

you. 
Never would I have sought to win her 

from you. 
The truth stands now revealed ; she has 

been false 
To both of us. 

Vict. Ay, false as hell itself ! 

Lara. \\\ truth, I did not seek her ; 
she sought me ; 
And told me how to win her, telling me 
The hours when she was oftenest left 
alone. 
Vict. Say, can you prove this to me .'' 
O, pluck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me into 

madness ! 
Let me know all ! all ! all ! 

Lara. You shall know all. 

Here is my page, who was the messenger 
Between us. Question him. Was it not 

so, 
Francisco ? 

Fran. Ay, my lord. 
Lara. If further proof 

Is needful, I have here a ring she gave 
me. 
Vict. Pray let me see that ring ? It is 
the same ! 

\Thro'MS it upon the ground and tramples 
upon it.) 



Thus may she perish who once wore that 
ring ! 

Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus 
trample 

Her memory in the dust ! O Count of 
Lara, 

We both have been abused, been much 
abused ! 

I thank you for your courtesy and frank- 
ness. 

Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours 
gave me pain. 

Yet it has cured my blindness, and I 
thank you. 

I now can see the folly I have done. 

Though 't is, alas ! too late. So fare you 
well ! 

To-night I leave this hateful town for- 
ever. 

Regard me as your friend. Once more, 
farewell ! 
Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. 

[Exeunt VICTORIAN and Hypohto. 

Lara. Farewell ! farewell ! farewell ! 
Thus have I cleared the field of my 

worst foe ! 
I have none else to fear; the fight is 

done. 
The citadel is stormed, the victorj' won ! 
[Exit with Francisco. 

Scene VII. — A lane in the suburbs. 
Night. Enter Cruzado and Bartol- 

OME. 

Cruz. And so, Bartolome, the expedi- 
tion failed. But where wast thou for the 
most part ? 

Bart. In the Guadarrama mountains, 
near San Ildefonso. 

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing back 
with thee ? Didst thou rob no one ? 

Bart. There was no one to rob, save 
a party of students from Segovia, who 
looked as if they would rob us ; and a 
jolly little friar, who had nothing in his 
pockets but a missal and a loaf of 
bread. 

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings thee 
back to Madrid ? 

Bart. First tell me what keeps thee 
here ? 



86 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Cruz. Preciosa. 


Don y. Will you serenade her ? 


Bart. And she brings me back. Hast 


Lara. No music ! no more music ! 


thou forgotten thy promise ? 


Don L. Why not music ? 


Cruz. The two years are not passed 


It softens many hearts. 


yet. Wait patiently. The girl shall be 


Lara. Not in the humor 


thine. 


She now is in. Music would madden 


Bart. I hear she has a Busne lover. 


her. 


Cruz. That is nothing. 


Don y. Try golden cymbals. 


Bart. I do not like it. I hate him, — 


Do7i L. Yes, try Don Dinero ; 


the son of a Busne harlot. He goes in 


A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 


and out, and speaks with her alone, and I 


Lara. To tell the truth, then, I have 


must stand aside, and wait his pleasure. 


bribed her maid. 


Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou shalt 


But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 


have thy revenge. When the time 


A bumper and away ; for the night 


comes, thou shalt waylay him. 


wears. 


Bart. Meanwhile, show me her house. 


A health to Preciosa. 


Cruz. Come this way. But thou wilt 
not find her. She dances at the play to- 


( They rise and drink.) 


night. 


All. Preciosa. 


Bart. No matter. Show me the 


Lara {holding up his glass). Thou 


house. [Exeunt. 


bright and flaming minister of 




Love! 


Scene VHI. — The Theatre. The orches- 


Thou wonderful magician ! who hast 


tra plays the cachucha. Sound of casta- 


stolen 


nets behind the scenes. The curtain rises. 


My secret from me, and 'mid sighs of 


and discovers Preciosa in the attitude 


passion 


of commencing the dance. The cachucha. 


Caught from my lips, with red and fiery 


Tumult ; hisses ; cries of " Brava ! " 


tongue, 


and " Afuera I " She falters and pauses. 


Her precious name ! O nevermore 


The music stops. General confusion. 


henceforth 


Preciosa /zm/j-. 


Shall mortal lips press thine ; and never- 




more 


Scene IX. — The Count of Lara's 


A mortal name be whispered in thine 


chambers. Lara and his friends at 


ear. 


supper. 


Go ! keep my secret ! 


Lara. So, Caballeros, once more many 


(Drinks and dashes the goblet down.) 


thanks ! 


Don y. Ite ! missa est ! 


You have stood by me bravely in this 
matter. 


{Scene closes.) 


Pray fill your glasses. 




Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis, 


Scene X. — Street and garden wall. 


How pale she looked, when first the 


Alight. Enter Cruzado and Bartol- 


noise began, 


OME. 


And then stood still, with her large eyes 




dilated ! 


Cruz. This is the garden wall, and 


Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her 


above it, yonder, is her house. The 


bosom 


window in which thou seest the light is 


Tumultuous as the sea ! 


her window. But we will not go in now. 


Don L. I pitied her. 


Bart. Why not ? 


Lara. Her pride is humbled ; and this 


Cruz. Because she is not at home. 


very night 


Bart. No matter ; we can wait. But 


I mean to visit her. 


how is this? The gate is bolted. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



87 



{Sound of giUtars and voices iti a neigh- 
boring street.) Hark! There comes her 
lover with his infernal serenade ! Hark I 



Good night ! Good night, beloved 1 
I come to watch o'er thee ! 

To be near thee, — to be near thee. 
Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning. 
Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 

Good night ! Good night, beloved. 
While I count the weary hours. 

Cruz. They are not coming this way. 
Bart. Wait, they begin again. 

SONG (coming nearer). 

Ah ! thou moon that shinest 

Argent-clear above ! 
All night long enlighten 

My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 
All night long enlighten ! 

Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes this 

way ! 
Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing down 

the street. 

SONG (dying away). 

The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! * 

Bart. Follow that ! follow that ! 
Come with me. Puss ! puss ! 

(^Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the 
Count of Lara and gentlemen, with 
Francisco.) 

Lara. The gate is fast. Over the wall, 

Francisco, 
And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, 

and over. 
Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me 

scale 
Von balcony. How now ? Her light 

still burns. 



Move warily. Make fast the gate, Fran- 
cisco. 

(Exeunt. Re-enter Cruzado and Bar- 
TOLOMfe.) 

Bart. They went in at the gate. Hark! 
I hear them in the garden. (Tries the 
gate.) Bolted again ! Vive Cristo ! Fol- 
low me over the wall. 

( They climb the wall.) 

Scene XI. — Preciosa's bedchamber. 
Midnight. She is sleeping in an arm- 
chair, in an undress. DoLORES watch- 
ing her. 

Dol. She sleeps at last ! 

(Opens the window and listens.) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 

Free, (in her sleep). I must go hence ! 
Give me my cloak ! 

Dul. He comes ! I hear his footsteps ! 

Prfc. Go tell them that I cannot dance 

to-night ; 

I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the fever 

That burns upon my cheek ! I must go 

hence. 
I am too weak to dance. 

(Signal from the garden.) 

Dol. (from the window). Who 's there ? 

Voice (from below). A friend. 

Dol. I will undo the door. Wait till I 

come. 
Free. I must go hence. I pray you do 
not harm me ! 
Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman 

thus! 
Be you but kind, I will do all things for 

you. 
I 'm ready now, — give me my castanets. 
Where is Victorian } Oh, those hateful 

lamps ! 
They glare upon me like an evil eye. 
I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock 

at me ! 
They hiss at me like serpents I Save 
me ! save me ! 

(She 7t'akes.) 
How late is it, Dolores? 



88 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Dol. It is midnight. 

Prcc. We must be patient. Smooth 
this pillow for me. 

[She sleeps again. Noise from the garden, 
and voices.) 

Voice. Muera ! 

Anothtr Voice. O villains ! villains 1 

Lara. So ! have at you ! 

Voice. Take that ! 

Lara. O, I am wounded ! 

Dol. (shutting the windozu). Jesu 
Maria ! 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — A cross-road through a wood. 
In the background a distant village 
spire. Victorian and Hypolito, 
flj travelling students, with guitars, 
sitting under the trees. H YPOLITO plays 
and sings. 



Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue 1 

Most untrue 
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me ! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy with his 
shuttle. 
Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes 

Arcadian ; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 
Hyp. Thinking to walk in those Arca- 
dian pastures. 
Thou hast run thy noble head against the 
wall. 

SONG {continued). 

Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend, 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 



They are cheats, 
Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Vict. A very pretty song. I thank thee 

for it. 
Hyp. It suits thy case. 
Vict. Indeed, I think it does. 

What wise man wrote it .'' 

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Vict. In truth, a pretty song. 
Hyp. With much truth in it. 

I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in ear- 
nest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

Vict. I will forget her ! All dear rec- 
ollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within 

a book. 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the 

winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps here- 
after. 
When she shall learn how heartless is the 

world, 
A voice within her will repeat my name, 
And she will say, " He was indeed my 

friend ! " 
O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar. 
That the loud march, the deafening beat 

of drums. 
The shattering blast of the brass-throated 

trumpet. 
The din of arms, the onslaught and the 

storm, 
And a swift death, might make me deaf 

forever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 
Hyp. Then let that foolish heart up- 
braid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will to 
conquer. 
Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 
I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 
That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 
With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will 

not sink. 
There rises from below a hand that grasps 

it, 
And waves it in the air ; and wailing 

voices 
Are heard along the shore. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



89 



Hyp. And yet at last 

Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with life's 

burden. 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the 

wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty 

health 
To talk of dying. 

Vict. Yet I fain would die ! 

To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild 

impulse, 
And struggle after something we have not 
And cannot have ; the effort to be strong ; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and 

smile, 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath 

our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead 

alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 

Hyp. We shall all be soon. 

Vict. It cannot be too soon ; for I am 
weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, and 

friends as strangers ; 
Where whispers overheard betray false 

hearts ; 
And through the mazes of the crowd we 

chase 
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and 

beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, only to 

leave us 
A mockery and a jest ; maddened, — con- 
fused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 

Hyp. Why seek to know .'' 

Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives 

itself. 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

Vict. I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no 

longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mar- 
iner, 



Who, struggling to climb up into the 

boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands 

cut off. 
And sinks again into the weltering sea, 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

Ilyp- Yet thou shalt not perish. 

The strength of thine own arm is thy 

salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, 

there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy 

star ! 

(Sou?td 0/ a village bell in the distance.) 

Vict. Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 
Ringing the chimes from yonder village 

belfry ! 
A solemn sound, that echoes far and 

wide 
Over the red roofs of the cottages, 
And bids the laboring hind a-field, the 

shepherd, 
Guarding his flock, the lonely muleteer, 
And all the crowd in village streets, stand 

still. 
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed 

Virgin ! 
Hyp. Amen ! amen ! Not half a league 

from hence 
The village lies. 

Vict. This path will lead us to it. 

Over the wheat-fields, where the shadows 

sail 
Across the running sea, now green, now 

blue. 
And, like an idle mariner on the main, 
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten 

on. [Exeunt. 

Scene II. — Public square in the village of 
Guadarrama. The Ave Maria still toll- 
ing. A crowd of villagers, with their hats 
in their hands, as if in prayer. In front, 
a group of Gypsies. The hell rings a 
merrier peal. A Gypsy diiue. Enter 
"Pa^cho, follo^wed by Pedro Crespo. 

Pancho. Make room, ye vagabonds and 
Gypsy thieves ! 
Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! 
Pedro C. Keep silence all ! I have an 
edict here 



90 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



From our most gracious lord, the King 
of Spain, 

Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 

Which I shall publish in the market- 
place. 

Open your ears and listen ! 

{Enter the Padre Cura at the door of his 
cottage.) 

Padre Cura, 
Good day ! and, pray you, hear this edict 
read. 
Padre C. Good day, and God be with 

you ! Pray, what is it ? 
Pedro C. An act of banishment against 

the Gypsies ! 
{Agitation and imirmurs in the crowd.) 

Pancho. Silence ! 

Pedro C. {reads). " I hereby order and 
command, 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean stran- 
gers, 
Known by the name of Gypsies, shall 

henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vaga- 
bonds 
And beggars ; and if, after seventy days, 
Any be found within our kingdom's 

bounds, 
They shall receive a hundred lashes 

each ; 
The second time, shall have their ears 

cut off; 
The third, be slaves for life to him who 

takes them, 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the 

King." 
Vile miscreants and creatures unbap- 

tized ! 
You hear the law ! Obey and disap- 
pear ! 
Pancho. And if in seventy days you are 
not gone. 
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 

( The Gypsies go otit in confusion, showing 
signs of far and discontent. Pancho 
foUoavs.) 

Padre C. A righteous law ! A very 
righteous law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 

Pedro C I thank you heartily. 



{They seat themselves on a bench at tht 
Padre Cura's door. Sound of guitars 
heard at a distance, approaching during 
the dialogue which follows.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 
Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all 

things, — 
How came these Gypsies into Spain ? 

Padre C. Why, look you : 

They came with Hercules from Palestine, 
And hence are thieves and vagrants. Sir 

Alcalde, 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 
And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says, 
There are a hundred marks to prove a 

Moor 
Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gyp- 
sies. 
They never marry, never go to mass, 
Never baptize their children, nor keep 

Lent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — 
nor — 
Pedro C. Good reasons, good, sub- 
stantial reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety-five. 
They should be burnt, I see it plain 

enough, 
They should be burnt. 

{Enter VICTORIAN and Hypolito 
playing.) 

Padre C. And pray, whom have we 

here ? 
Pedro C. More vagrants ! By Saint 
1 Lazarus, more vagrants ! 

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen ! Is 

this Guadarrama ? 
Padre C. Yes, Guadarrama, and good 

evening to you. 
Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura of the 
village ; 
And, judging from your dress and rever- 
end mien. 
You must be he. 

Padre C. I am. Pray, what's your 

pleasure ? 
Hyp. We are poor students, travelling 
in vacation. 
You know this mark ? 

( Touching the tvooden spoon in his hat- 
band.) 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



91 



Fadre C. {Joyfully). Ay, know it, and 

have worn it. 

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters ! by the 

mass ! The worst of vagrants ! 

And there 's no law against them. Sir, 

your servant. [Exit. 

Padre C. Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 

Hyp. Padre Cura, 

From the first moment I beheld your 

face, 
I said within myself, " This is the man ! " 
There is a certain something in your 

looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studious some- 
thing, — 
You understand, — which cannot be mis- 
taken ; 
Which marks you as a very learned man, 
In fine, as one of us. 

Vict, [aside). What impudence ! 

Hyp. As we approached, I said to my 
companion, 
" That is the Padre Cura ; mark my 

words ! " 
Meaning your Grace. " The other man," 

said I, 
" Who sits so awkwardly upon the bench, 
Must be the sacristan." 

Padre C. Ah ! said you so ? 

Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the al- 
calde ! 
Hyp. Indeed ! you much astonish me ! 
His air 
Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

Padre C. That is true. 

He 's out of humor with some vagrant 

Gypsies, 
Who have their camp here in the neigh- 
borhood. 
There 's nothing so undignified as anger. 
Hyp. The Padre Cura will excuse our 
boldness, 
If, from his well-kno\vn hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

Padre C. I jjray you ! 

You do me honor ! I am but too happy 
To have such guests beneath my humble 

roof. 
It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak with scholars ; and Emollit 

mores. 
Nee sinit esse/eros, Cicero says. 



Hyp. 'T is Ovid, is it not ? 
Padre C. No. Cicero. 

Hyp. Your Grace is right. \'ou are 
the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it 

Ovid: 
But hang me if it is not ! (Aside.) 

Padre C. Pass this way. 

He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene III. — A room in the Padre 
Cura's house. Enter the Padre and 
Hypolito. 

Padre C. So then, Senor, you come 
from Alcala. 
I am glad to hear it. It was there I 
studied. 
Hyp. And left behind an honored 
name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace .' 

Padre C. Geronimo 

De Santillana, at your Honor's service. 
Hyp. Descended from the Marquis 
Santillana } 
From the distinguished poet } 

Padre C. From the Marquis, 

Not from the poet. 

Hyp. Why, they were the same. 

Let me embrace you ! O some lucky star 
Has brought me hither ! Yet once 

more ! — once more ! 
Your name is ever green in Alcala, 
And our professor, when we are unruly, 
Will shake his hoaiy head, and say, 

" Alas ! 
It was not so in Santillana's time ! " 
Padre C. I did not think my name re- 
membered there. 
Hyp. More than remembered ; it is 

idolized. 
Padre C. Of what professor speak you ? 
Hyp. Timoneda. 

Padre C. I don't remember any Timo- 
neda. 
Hyp. A grave and somlire man, whose 
beetling brow 
O'erhangs the rushing current of his 

speech 
As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you 
forgotten ? 



92 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Padre C. Indeed, I have. O, those 


The shepherd boy that loved you was a 


were pleasant days, 


clown, 


Those college days ! I ne'er shall see 


And him you should not marry. Was it 


the like ! 


not? 


I had not buried then so many hopes ! 


Mart, {surprised). How know you 


I had not buried then so many friends ! 


that } 


I've turned my back on what was then 


Hyp. O, I know more than that. 


before me ; 


What a soft, little hand ! and then they 


And the bright faces of my young com- 


said, 


panions 


A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall 


Are wrinkled like my own, or are no 


And rich, should come one day to marry 


more. 


you, 


Do you remember Cueva .'' 


And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 


Hyp. Cueva ? Cueva ? 


He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 


Padre C. Fool that I am ! He was be- 


(Tries to kiss Iter. She rims off. Enter 


fore your time. 


Victorian, with a letter.) 


You 're a mere boy, and I am an old man. 




Hyp. I should not like to try my 


Vict. The muleteer has come. 


strength with you. 


Hyp. So soon ? 


Padre C. Well, well. But I forget ; 


Vict. I found him 


you must be hungry. 


Sitting at supper by the tavern door. 


Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my niece. 


And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 


{Enter Martina.) 


His whole arm's length, drinking the 
blood-red wine. 


Hyp. You may be proud of such a 


Hyp. What news from Court ? 


niece as that. 


Vict. He brought this letter 


I wish I had a niece. Eviollit mores. 


only. {Reads.) 


{Aside.) 


O cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 


He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 


That lying tongue deceive me ! Pre- 


Your servant, fair Martina. 


ciosa. 


Mart. Servant, sir. 


Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 


Padre C. This gentleman is hungry. 


Hyp. What news is this, that makes 


See thou to it. 


thy cheek turn pale. 


Let us have supper. 


And thy hand tremble .■' 


Mart. 'T will be ready soon. 


Vict. O, most infamous ! 


Padre C. And bring a bottle of my 


The Count of Lara is a worthless villain ! 


Val-de-PeRas 


Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. 


Out of the cellar. Stay ; I '11 go myself. 


Vict. He strove in vain 


Pray you, Senor, excuse me. [Exit. 


To steal from me the jewel of my soul. 


Hyp. Hist ! Martina ! 


The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding, 


One word with you. Bless me ! what 


He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 


handsome eyes ! 


A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 


To-day there have been Gypsies in the 


She has been hissed and hooted from the 


village. 


stage, 


Is it not so ? 


Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 


Mart. There have been Gypsies here. 


Too foul to speak of ; and, once more a 


Hyp. Yes, and they told your fortune. 


beggar. 


Mart, {embarrassed). Told my for- 


She roams a wanderer over God's green 


tune .' 


earth. 


Hyp. Yes, yes ; I know they did. 


Housing with Gypsies ! 


Give me your hand. 


Hyp. To renew again 


I '11 tell you what they said. They said, 


The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd 


— they said, 


swains 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



93 



Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's 
Diana. 

Redil et Virgo ! 

Vict. Dear Hyp ilito, 

How have I wronged that meek, confid- 
ing heart ! 

I will go seek for her ; and with my tears 

Wash out the wrong I 've done her ! 
Hyp. O beware ! 

Act not that folly o'er again. 

Vict. Ay, folly, 

Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 

I will confess my weakness, — I still love 
her! 

Still fondly love her ! 

[Enter the Padre Cura.) 

Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, 

Who are these Gypsies in the neighbor- 
hood ? 
Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and his 

crew. 
Vict. Kind Heaven, 

I thank thee ! She is found ! is found 
again ! 
Hyp. And have they with them a pale, 
beautiful girl, 
Called Preciosa .-' 

Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. 

The gentleman seems moved. 

Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, 

He is half famished with this long day's 
journey. 
Padre C. Then, pray you, come this 
way. The supper waits. 

\^Exewtt. 

Scene IV. — A post-house on the road to 
Segovia, not far from the village of Gua- 
dai-rama. Enter Chispa, cracking a 
•whip and singing the Cachticha. 

Chispa. Halloo ! Don Fulano ! Let us 
have horses, and quickly. Alas, poor 
Chispa ! what a dog's life dost thou lead ! 
I thought, when I left my old master 
Victorian, the student, to serve my new 
ma.ster Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, 
too, should lead the life of a gentleman ; 
should go to bed early, and get up late. 
For when the abbot plays cards, what can 
you expect of the friars ? But, in running 
away from the thunder, I have run into 



the lightning. Here I am in hot chase 
after my master and his Gypsy girl. And 
a good beginning of the week it is, as he 
said who was hanged on Monday morn- 
ing. 

[Enter Don Carlos.) 

Don C. Are not the horses ready yet ? 

Chispa. I should think not, for the 
hostler seems to be asleep. Ho ! within 
there ! Horses ! horses ! horses ! {He 
knocks at the gate with his whip, and enter 
Mosquito, putting on his jacket.) 

Mosq. Pray have a little patience. I 'm 
not a musket. 

Chispa. Health and pistareens ! I 'm 
glad to see you come on dancing, padre ! 
Pray, what 's the news ? 

Mosq. You cannot have fresh horses ; 
because there are none. 

Chispa. Cachiporra ! Throw that tone 
to another dog. Do I look like youi 
aunt .' 

Mosq. No ; she has a beard. 

Chispa. Go to ! go to ! 

Mosq. Are you from Madrid .' 

Chispa. Yes ; and going to Estrama- 
dura. Get us horses. 

Mosq. What 's the news at Court ? 

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, that 
I am going to set up a coach, and I have 
already bought the whip. 

{Strikes him round the legs.) 

Mosq. Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

Don C. Enough of this folly. Let us 
have horses. {Gives money to Mosquito.) 
It is almost dark ; and we are in haste. 
But tell me, has a band of Gypsies passed 
this way of late .-' 

Mosq. Yes ; and they are still in the 
neighborhood. 

Dott C. And where ? 

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, in the 
woods near Guadarrama. [Exit. 

Don C. Now this is lucky. We will 
visit the Gypsy camp. 

Chispa. Are you not afraid of the evil 
eye .' Have you a stag's horn with you ? 

Don C. Fear not. We will pass the 
night at the village. 

Chispa. And sleep like the Squires of 
Hernan Daza, nine under one blanket. 



94 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Don C. I hope we may find the Pre- 
ciosa among them. 

Chispa. Among the Squires ? 

Do7i C. No ; among the Gypsies, 
blockhead ! 

Chispa. I hope we may ; for we are 
giving ourselves trouble enough on her 
account. Don't you think so 1 How- 
ever, there is no catching trout without 
wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the 
horses. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. — The Gypsy camp in the forest. 
Night. Gypsies working at a forge. 
Others playing cards by the fire-light. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

On the top of a mountain I stand, 
With a crown of red gold in my hand, 
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, 

flee? 
O how from their fury shall I flee .'' 

First Gypsy [playing). Down with 
your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down 
with your John-Dorados, and let us make 
an end. 

Gypsies [at the forge sing) . 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 

And thus his ditty ran : 
God send the Gypsy lassie here. 

And not the Gypsy man. 

First Gypsy {playing). There you are in 
your morocco ! 

Second Gypsy. One more game. The 
Alcalde's doves against the Padre Cura's 
new moon. 

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chirelin. 

Gypsies {at the forge sing). 

At midnight, when the4noon began 

To show her silver flame. 
There came to him no Gypsy man. 

The Gypsy lassie came. 

(Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalleros and 
Rastilleros ; leave work, leave play ; 
listen to your orders for the night. 
{Speaking to the right.) You will get you 



to the village, mark you, by the stone 
cross. 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz, {to the left). And you, by the 
pole with the hermit's head upon it 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. As soon as you see the planets 
are out, in with you, and be busy with the 
ten commandments, under the sly, and 
Saint Martin asleep. D' ye hear .'* 

Gypsies. Ay ! 

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, and, if 
you see a goblin or a papagayo, take to 
your trampers. Vineyards and Dancing 
John is the word. Am I comprehended ? 

Gypsies. Ay ! ay ! 

Cruz. Away, then ! 

{Exeunt severally. Cruzado walks up the 
stage, and disappears among the trees. 
Enter Preciosa.) 

Free. How strangely gleams through 
the gigantic trees 

The red light of the forge ! Wild, beckon- 
ing shadows 

Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 

Rising and bending with the flickering 
flame, 

Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 

Strange hopes and fears do beckon to 
each other. 

My brightest hopes giving dark fears a 
being 

As the light does the shadow. Woe is 
me ! 

How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 

(Bartolome rushes in.) 

Bart. Ho ! Preciosa ! 
Free. O Bartolome ! 

Thou here 1 

Bart. Lo ! I am here. 

Free. Whence comest thou ? 

Bart. From the rough ridges of the 
wild Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, 

thirst. 
And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the 

sheepfold 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

Free. O touch me not ! 

The Count of Lara's blood is on thy 
hands ! 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



95 



The Count of Lara's curse is on thy 

soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone 

from here ! 
Thou art in danger ! They have set a 

price 
Upon thy head ! 

Bart. Ay, and I 've wandered long 

Among the mountains ; and for many 

days 
Have seen no human face, save the rough 

swineherd's. 
The wind and rain have been my sole 

companions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy 

name, 
And the loud echo sent it back to me, 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from 

thee, 
And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 
Free. Betray thee ? I betray thee .' 
Bart. Preciosa ! 

I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave 

death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this 

realm ! 
Fly with me ! 

Prec. Speak of that no more. I cannot. 
I 'm thine no longer. 

Bart. O, recall the time 

When we were children ! how we played 

together. 
How we grew up together ; how we 

plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in child- 
hood ! 
Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 
I 'm hunted from the kingdom, like a 

wolf! 
Fulfil thy promise. 

Prec. 'T was my father's promise, 

Not mine. I never gave my heart to 

thee. 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 

Bai-t. False tongue of woman ! 

And heart more false ! 

Ptec. Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never loved 

thee ; 
I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst 

thou with me, 



A feeble girl, who have not long to live, 
Whose heart is broken ? Seek another 

wife. 
Better than I, and fairer ; and let not 
'I'hy rash and headlong moods estrange 

her from thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless pas- 
sion. 
I never sought thy love ; never did aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee. 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart. 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of 

blood. 
Beware, beware of that 

Bart. For thy dear sake 

I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me 
patience. 
Prec. Then take this farewell, and de- 
part in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

Bart. Come, come with me. 

Prec. Hark ! I hear footsteps. 
Bart. I entreat thee, come ! 

Prec. Away ! It is in vain. 
Bart. Wilt thou not come ? 

Prec. Never ! 

Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, 

upon thee ! 

Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt 

die. \Exit. 

Prec. All holy angels keep me in this 

hour ! 

Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me ' 

Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ! 

Christ and the saints, be merciful unto mc I 

Yet wiiy should I fear death ? What is it 

to die ? 
To leave all disappointment, care, and 

sorrow. 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and 

unkindness. 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair. 
And be at rest forever ! O dull heart, 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt 

cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and com- 
plain ! 

{Enter VicrORlAN and HypoLITO b<- 
hind.) 

Vict. 'T is she ! Behold, how beautiful 
she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 



96 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


Hyp. A woodland nymph ! 


Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's 


Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. Leave 


hand ! 


me. 


There is no blessing in its charity ! 


Hyp. Be wary. 


Make her your wife, for you have been 


Do not betray thyself too soon. 


abused ; 


Vict. (disguising his voice). Hist ! 


And you shall mend your fortunes, mend- 


Gypsy ! 


ing hers. 


Prec. (aside, with emotion). That voice ! 


Vict, (aside). How like an angel's 


that voice from heaven ! O speak 


speaks the tongue'of woman. 


again ! 


When pleading in another's cause her 


Who is it calls .? 


own ! 


Vict. A friend. 


That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 


Prec. (aside). 'T is he ! 'T is he ! 


Pray give it me. ( Tries to take the ring.) 


I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast 


P?-ec. No ; never from my hand 


heard my prayer, 


Shall that be taken ! 


And sent me this protector ! Now be 


Vict. Why, 't is but a ring. 


strong. 


I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 


Be strong, my heart ! I must dissemble 


Will give you gold to buy you twenty 


here. 


such. 


False friend or true .'' 


Prec. Why would you have this ring > 


Vict. A true friend to the true ; 


Vict. A traveller's fancy. 


Fear not ; come hither. So ; can you 


A whim, and nothing more. I would fain 


tell fortunes ? 


keep it 


Prec. Not in the dark. Come nearer 


As a memento of the Gypsy camp 


to the fire. 


In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 


Give me your hand. It is not crossed. 


Who sent me back to wed a widowed 


I see. 


maid. 


Vict, (putting a piece of gold into her 


Pray, let me have the ring. 


hand). There is the cross. 


Prec. No, never ! never ! 


Prec. Is 't silver ? 


I will not part with it, even when I die ; 


Vict. No, 't is gold. 


But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers 


Prec. There 's a fair lady at the Court, 


thus. 


who loves you, 


That it may not fall from them. 'T is a 


And for yourself alone. 


token 


Vict. Fie ! the old story ! 


Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 


Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 


Vict. How? dead.? 


Not this old woman's tale ! 


Prec. Yes ; dead to me ; and worse 


Prec. You are passionate ; 


than dead. 


And this same passionate humor in your 


He is estranged ! And yet I keep this 


blood 


ring. 


Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I see it 


I will rise with it from my grave here- 


now ; 


after, 


The line of life is crossed by many marks. 


To prove to him that I was never false. 


Shame ! shame ! O you have wronged 


Vict, (aside). Be still, my swelling 


the maid who loved you ! 


heart ! one moment, still ! 


How could you do it ? 


Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 


Vict. I never loved a maid ; 


Come, give it me, or I will say 'tis 


For she I loved was then a maid no 


mine. 


more. 


And that you stole it. 


Prec. How know you that "i 


Prec. O, you will not dare 


Vict. A little bird in the air 


To utter such a falsehood ! 


Whispered the secret. 


I not dare ? 


Prec. There, take back your gold ! 


Look in my face, and say if there is aught 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



97 



I have not dared, I would not dare, for 
thee ! 

(She rushes into his arms.) 

Free. 'T is thou ! 't is thou ! Yes ; 
5'es ; my J;ieart's elected ! 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's 

heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long ? Why 
didst thou leave me ? 
Vict. Ask me not now, my dearest 
Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 
Free. Hadst thou not come — 
Vict. I pray thee, do not chide me ! 
Free. I should have perished here 

among these Gypsies. 
Vict. Forgive me, sweet ! for what I 
made thee suffer. 
Think'st thou this heart could feel a mo- 
ment's joy, 
Thou being absent .'' O, believe it not ! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have not 

slept. 
For thinking of the wrong I did to thee ! 
Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou 
forgive me .-' 
Free. I have forgiven thee. Ere those 
words of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ down 

against thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 

Vict. I 'm the veriest fool 

That walks the earth, to have believed 

thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara — 

Free. That bad man 

Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou 

not heard — 

Vict. I have heard all. And yet speak 

on, speak on ! 

Let me but hear thy voice, and I am 

happy ; 
For every tone, like some sweet incanta- 
tion, 
Calls up the buried past to plead for 

me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 

( They walk aside.) 

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the pasto- 
ral poets, 

7 



All passionate love scenes in the best 
romances, 

All chaste embraces on the public stage. 

All soft adventures, which the liberal 
stars. 

Have winked at, as the natural course of 
things, 

Have been surpassed here by my friend, 
the student, 

And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 
Free. Senor Hypolito ! I kiss your 
hand. 

Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 

Hyp. Not to-night ; 

For, should you treat me as you did Vic- 
torian, 

And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 

My wedding day would last from now till 
Christmas. 
Chispa (within). What ho ! the Gyp- 
sies, ho ! Beltran Cruzado ! 

Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

(Enters booted, with a whip and lantern.) 

Vict. What now ? 

Why such a fearful din ? Hast thou been 
robbed .'' 
Chispa. Ay, robbed and murdered ; 
and good evening to you. 
My worthy masters. 

Vict. Speak ; what brings thee here ? 
Chispa (to Freciosa). Good news from 
Court ; good news ! Beltran Cru- 
zado, 
The Count of the Cales, is not your 

father, 
But your true father has returned to 

Spain 
Laden with wealth. You are no more a 
Gypsy. 
Vict. Strange as a Moorish tale ! 
Chispa. And we have all 

Been drinking at the tavern to your 

health, 
As wells drink in November, when it 
rains. 
Vict. Where is the gentleman ? 
Chispa. As the old song says, 

His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 

Free. Is this a dream ? O, if it be a 
dream. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Let me sleep on, and do not wake me 

yet! 
Repeat thy story ! Say I 'm not de- 
ceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am awake ; 
This is the Gypsy camp ; this is Victo- 
rian, 
And this his friend, Hypolito ! Speak ! 

speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! 
Vict. It is a dream, sweet child ! a 

waking dream, 
A blissful certainty, a vision bright 
Of that rare happiness which even on 

earth 
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now 

art thou rich. 
As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 
And I am now the beggar. 

Prec. [giving him her ha)id). I have 

still 
A hand to give. 

Chispa (aside). And I have two to 

take. 
1 've heard my grandmother say, that 

Heaven gives almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That 's 

nuts to crack. 
I 've teeth to spare, but where shall I find 

almonds ? 
Vict. What more of this strange story } 
Chispa. Nothing more. 

Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the 

village 
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The old 

hag, 
Who stole you in your childhood, has 

confessed ; 
And probably they '11 hang her for the 

crime, 
To make the celebration more complete. 
Vict. No ; let it be a day of general 

joy; 

Fortune comes well to all, that comes not 

late. 
Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Hyp. So farewell. 

The student's wandering life ! Sweet 

serenades, 
Sung under ladies' windows in the night, 
And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 



To you, ye radiant visions of romance. 
Written in books, but here surpassed by 

truth. 
The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 
And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish 

Student. 

Scene VL — A pass in the Guadarratna 
mountains. Early morning. A mule- 
teer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on 
his mttle, and lighting a paper cigar with 
flint and steel. 



If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers. 
But come with thy naked feet ; 

We shall have to pass through the dewy 
grass. 
And waters wide and fleet. 

{Disappears dozvn the pass. Enter a Monk. 
A Shepherd appears on the rocks above.) 

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola ! 
good man ! 

Shep. Ola ! 

Monk. Is this the road to Segovia ? 

Shep. It is, your reverence. 

Monk. How far is it ? 

Shep. I do not know. 

Monk. What is that yonder in the val- 
ley ? 

Shep. San Ildefonso. 

Monk. A long way to breakfast. 

Shep. Ay, marry. 

Monk. Are there robbers in these 
mountains ? 

Shep. Yes, and worse than that. 

Monk. What ? 

Shep. Wolves. 

Monk. Santa Maria ! Come with me 
to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well 
rewarded. 

Shep. What wilt thou give me ? 

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my bene- 
diction. 

( They disappear. A mounted Contraband- 
ista passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



99 



gun at his saddle-bcnv. He goes doion 
the pass singing.) 



Worn with speed is my good steed, 

And I march me hurried, worried ; 

Onward, caballito mio. 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

{Song dies away. Enter Preciosa, on 
horseback, attended by Victorian, Hy- 
POLiTO, Don Carlos, and Chispa, on 
foot, and armed. 

Vict. This is the highest point. Here 
let us rest. 
See, Preciosa, see how all about us 
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty 

mountains 
Receive the benediction of the sun ! 
O glorious sight ! 
Free. Most beautiful indeed ! 

Hyp. Most wonderful ! 
Vict. And in the vale below. 

Where yonder steeples flash like lifted 

halberds, 
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries. 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
As if an army smote their brazen shields. 
And shouted victory ! 

Free. And which way lies 

Segovia .' 

Vict. At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it .-' 

Free. No. I do not see it. 

Viet. The merest flaw that dents the 
horizon's edge. 
There, yonder ! 

Hyp. 'T is a notable old to\vn, 

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil 

Bias 
Was fed on Pan del Key. O, many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the 

Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the valley 

creeping. 
Glides at its foot 



Prec. O yes ! I see it now, 

Yet rather with my heart than with mine 

eyes. 
So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail 

thither. 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and 

forward urged 
Against all stress of accident, as in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and 

tide 
Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic 

Mountains, 
And there were wrecked, and perished in 

the sea ! (She weeps.) 
Vict. O gentle spirit ! Thou didst 

bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on 

thee 
Melts thee to tears ! O, let thy weary heart 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no 

more. 
Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted 
And filled with my afi"ection. 

Free. Stay no longer ! 

My father waits. Methinks I see him 

there. 
Now looking from the window, and now 

watching 
Each sound of wheels or footfall in the 

street. 
And saying, " Hark ! She comes ! " O 

father ! father ! 

( They descend the pass. Chispa remains 
behind.) 

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a 
dead one. Alas and alack-a-day ! Poor 
was I born, and poor do I remain. I nei- 
ther win nor lose. Thus I wag through 
the world, half the time on foot, and the 
other half walking ; and always as merry 
as a thunder-storm in the night. And so 
we plough along, as the fly said to the o.x. 
Who knows what may happen ? Pa- 
tience, and shuffle the cards ! I am not 
yet so bald that you can see my brains ; 
and perhaps, after all, I shall some day 
go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. 
Benedicite ! [Exit. 

(A pause. Then enter Bartolom^ 'Mild- 
ly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his 
hand.) 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



Bart. They passed this way ! I hear 
their horses' hoofs ! 
Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet car- 

amillo, 
This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last ! 

{Fires down the pass ) 



Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet car- 

amillo ! 
Well whistled ! — I have missed her ! — 

O my God ! 

{The shot is returned. Bartolome 
falls.) 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND 
(3THER POEMS. 



CARILLON. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended. 
Low and loud and sweetly blended. 
Low at times and loud at times. 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended. 
Slowly struck the clock eleven. 
And, from out the silent heaven. 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere. 
On the earth and in the air. 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning. 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 
For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers. 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision. 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling ; 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 



And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's aiiy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays. 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties. 
From the belfry of his brain, 
Scattered downward, though in vain. 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear, 
And by day men go their ways, 
Hearing the music as they pass, 
But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless vvight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life. 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears. 

Intermingled with the song. 

Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ringing. 

And wakes, and finds his slumberous 

eyes 
Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. 

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood. 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood 



I02 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 




Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there. 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour. 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 

From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high ; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. 



Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain ; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again ; 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 103 



All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old ; 

Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations ; more than royal pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound ; 

And her lighted' bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, 
And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold. 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold ; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote ; 
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 
" I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land ! " 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before I was aware, 
Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 
THE ARSENAL AT SPRING- | I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, 



FIELD. 

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceil- 
ing. 
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished 
arms ; 
But from their silent pipes no anthem 
pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild 
and dreary, 
When the t».eath-angel touches those 
swift keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful sym- 
phonies ! 



The cries of agony, the endless groan. 
Which, through the ages that have gone 
before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon 
hammer. 
Through Cimbric forest roars the 
Norseman's song. 
And loud, amid the universal clamor, 
O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar 
gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his 
palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful 

din. 



I04 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 


Given to redeem the human mind from 


Beat the wild war-drums made of ser- 


error, 


pent's skin ; 


There were no need of arsenals or 




forts: 


The tumult of each sacked and burning 




village ; 


The warrior's name would be a name 


The shout that every prayer for mercy 


abhorred ! 


drowns ; 


And every nation, that should lift 


The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 


again 


The wail of famine in beleaguered 


Its hand against a brother, on its fore- 


towns ; 


head 




Would wear forevermore the curse of 


The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 


Cain! 


asunder, 




The rattling musketry, the clashing 


Down the dark future, through long 


blade ; 


generations. 


And ever and anon, in tone of thunder, 


The echoing sounds grow fainter and 


The diapason of the cannonade. 


then cease ; 




And like a bell, with solemn, sweet 


Is it, man, with such discordant noises. 


vibrations, 


With such accursed instruments as 


I hear once more the voice of Christ 


these. 


say, " Peace ! " 


Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly 




voices. 


Peace ! and no longer from its brazen 


And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? 


portals 




The blast of War's great organ shakes 


Were half the power, that fills the world 


the skies ! 


with terror, 


But beautiful as songs of the immor- 


Were half the wealth, bestowed on 


tals, 


camps and courts. 


The holy melodies of love arise. 



NUREMBERG. 



In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them thronj. 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme. 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand ; 

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. 

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art : 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart ; 



NUREMBERG. 



105 




And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 

And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust ; 







'/ 'i. 




In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 



Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of art ; 



io6 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 

Einigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; 
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild. 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime ; 

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an alehouse, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door ; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, 

As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, 
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard ; 
But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, 

As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 



THE BRIDGE. 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the 
hour. 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 



I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 

Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 



THE BRIDGE. 



107 



The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight. 

The sea-weed floated wide. 



Would bear me away on its bosom 
O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shad iw over me. 




And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O how often. 
In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at mid- 
night. 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished tiiat the ebbing 
tide 



\'et whenever 1 cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers. 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think liow many thous.ands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 



io8 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND 07 HER POEMS. 



And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 



The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 





Ml 

j'^.J THE NORMAN BARON. 

Dans les moments de la vie oli la reflexion devient plus 
calme et plus profonde, oil I'lnteret et I'avarice parlent 
moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin do- 
mestique, de maladie, et de peril de mort, les nobles se 
repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose pen 
agreable a Dieu, qui avail cree tous les hommes a son 
image. Thierry, Conquete de rA7igleterre. 

I.N his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 
And the castle-turret shook. 

In this fight was Death the gainer. 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had plundered. 
Written in the Doomsday Book, 



By his bed a monk was seated. 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster. 
From the missal on his knee ; 



And, amid the tempest pealing. 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that from the neighboring klostei 
Rang for the Nativity. 



THE NORMAN BARON. 



109 




In the hall, the serf and vassal 
Held, that night, their Christmas was- 
sail ; 
Many a carol, old and saintly, 

Sang the minstrels and the waits ; 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen. 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the lays they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted, 
Where the monk, with accents holy 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened. 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

" Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! " 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted. 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
" .Miserere, T>omiiic ! " 



In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished. 
Falsehood and deceit were banished. 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched cre;i 
tures, 
By his hand were freed again. 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal. 
Death relaxed his iron features. 

And the monk replied, " Amen ! " 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumcd bv moth or rnst. 



no 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 




^T^^^y- A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE, -^--.v.. 



This is the place. Stand still, my 
steed, 

Let me review the scene. 
And summon from the shadowy Past 

The forms that once have been. 

The Past and Present here unite 

Beneath Time's flowing tide. 
Like footprints hidden by a brook, 

But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends. 
Through which I walked to church with 
thee, 

O gentlest of my friends ! 

The shadow of the linden-trees 

Lay moving on the grass ; 
Between them and the moving boughs, 

A shadow, thou didst pass. 

Thy dress was like the lilies, 
And thy heart as pure as they : 



One of God's holy messengers 
Did walk with me that day. 

I saw the branches of the trees 
Bend down thy touch to meet. 

The clover-blossoms in the grass 
Rise up to kiss thy feet. 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born ! " 
Solemnly sang the village choir 

On that sweet Sabbath morn. 

Through the closed blinds the golden 
sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, 
Like the celestial ladder seen 

By Jacob in his dream. 

And ever and anon, the wind. 

Sweet-scented with the hay, 
Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering 
leaves 

That on the window lay. 



J< 



TO A CHILD. 



Long was the good man's sermon, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, 

And still I thought of thee. 

Long was the prayer he uttered. 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed with him. 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed : 
Thou art no longer here : 



Part of the sunshine of the scene 
With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart. 
Like pine-trees dark and high. 

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 
A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past. 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs, 

Shines on a distant field. 




TO A CHILD. 

Dear child ! how radiant on thy mother's 

knee, 
With merry-making eyes and jocund 

smiles, 
Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 
Whose figures grace, 
With many a grotesque form and face. 
The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 



The lady with the gay macaw, 
The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 
With bearded lip and chin ; 
And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 
Beneath the imperial fan of stale. 
The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 
The coral rattle with its silver be'ls. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



Making a merry tune ! 
Thousands of years in Indian seas 
That coral grew, by slow degrees, 
Until some deadly and wild monsoon 
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 



In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 




Those silver bells 

Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore. 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 

Of darksome mines, 

In some obscure and sunless place. 

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base. 

Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines ! 

And thus for thee, O little child. 

Through many a danger and escape. 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape 



5ut, Id ! thy door is left ajar ! 
Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 
And, at the sound. 
Thou turnest round 
With quick and questioning eyes. 
Like one, who, in a foreign land, 
Beholds on every hand 
Some source of wonder and surprise ; 
And, restlessly, impatiently. 
Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 
The four walls of thy nursery 




For thee in foreign lands remote, 
Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 
The Indian peasant, chasing the wild- 
goat. 
Himself as swift and wild, 



Are now like prison walls to thee. 
No more thy mother's smiles. 
No more the painted tiles. 
Delight thee, nor the playthings on the 
floor, 



TO A CHILD. 



113 



That won thy little, beating heart before ; 
Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 
Thy pattering footstep falls. 
The sound of thy merry voice 
Makes the old walls 
Jubilant, and they rejoice 
With the joy of thy young heart, 
O'er the light of whose gladness 
No shadows of sadness 
From the sombre background of memory 
start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls. 
One whom memory oft recalls. 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt 



And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents. 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 

Ah, cruel Httle Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those sup- 
pliant looks. 
And voice more beautiful than a poet's 

books. 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 
Thou comest back to parley with repose 1 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree. 
With its o'erhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues. 
And shining with the argent light of dews, 




Up and down these echoing stairs. 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this very room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom. 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to 

thee > 
Out, out ! into the open air 
Thy only dream is liberty. 
Thou carest little how or where. 
I see thee eager at thy play, 
Now shouting to the apples on the tree, 
With cheeks as round and red as they ; 
And now among the yellow stalks. 
Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 
As restless as the bee. 
Along the garden walks, 
The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I 

trace ; 



Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest. 
From which the laughing birds have 

taken wing. 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant 

swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream. 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep. 
Thou driftest gently, down the tides of 

sleep. 

child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the mom is shed. 
Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate 
Into the future's undiscovered land. 

1 see its valves expand, 



114 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES A/VD OTHER POEMS. 


As at the touch of Fate ! 


And hearing the hammers, as they smote 


Into those realms of love and hate, 


The anvils with a different note, 


Into that darkness blank and drear, 


Stole from the varying tones, that hung 


By some prophetic feeling taught, 


Vibrant on every iron tongue, 


I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 


The secret of the sounding wire. 


Freighted with hope and fear ; 


And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 


As upon subterranean streams, 




In caverns unexplored and dark, 


Enough 1 I will not play the Seer ; 


Men sometimes launch a fragile bark. 


I will no longer strive to ope 


Laden with flickering fire, 


The mystic volume, where appear 


And watch its swift-receding beams, 


The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, 


Until at length they disappear. 


And Fear the pursuivant of Hope. 


And in the distant dark expire. 


Thy destiny remains untold ; 




For, like Acestes' shaft of old, 


By what astrology of fear or hope 


The swift thought kindles as it flies. 


Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 


And burns to ashes in the skies. 


Like the new moon thy life appears ; 




A little strip of silver light. 




And widening outward into night 


RAIN IN SUMMER. ' 


The shadov^ disk of future years ; 


How beautiful is the rain ! 


And yet upon its outer rim. 


After the dust and heat, 


A luminous circle, faint and dim, 


In the broad and fiery street. 


And scarcely visible to us here. 


In the narrow lane. 


Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 


How beautiful is the rain ! 


A prophecy and intimation. 




A pale and feeble adumbration, 


How it clatters along the roofs. 


Of the great world of light, that lies 


Like the tramp of hoofs ! 


Behind all human destinies. 


How it gushes and struggles out 


Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 


From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 


Should be to wet the dusty soil 




With the hot tears and sweat of toil. 


Across the window pane 


To struggle with imperious thought, 


It pours and pours ; 


Until the overburdened brain, 


And swift and wide, 


Weary with labor, faint with pain. 


With a muddy tide. 


Like a jarred pendulum, retain 


Like a river down the gutter roars 


Only its motion, not its power, — 


The rain, the welcome rain ! 


Remember, in that perilous hour, 




When most afflicted and oppressed, 


The sick man from his chamber looks 


From labor there shall come forth rest. 


At the twisted brooks ; 




He can feel the cool 


And if a more auspicious fate 


Breath of each little pool ; 


On thy advancing steps await. 


His fevered brain 


Still let it ever be thy pride 


Grows calm again. 


To linger by the laborer's side ; 


And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 


With words of sympathy or song 




To cheer the dreary march along 


From the neighboring school 


Of the great army of the poor. 


Come the boys, 


O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 


With more than their wonted noise 


Nor to thyself the task shall be 


And commotion ; 


Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 


And down the wet streets 


The wisdom early to discern 


Sail their mimic fleets, 


True beauty in utility ; 


Till the treacherous pool 


As great Pythagoras of yore, 


Ingulfs them in its whirling 


Standing beside the blacksmith's door. 


And turbulent ocean. 



RAIN IN SUMMER. 



"5 




In the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, 

Stretches the plain. 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain ! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head. 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale. 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of grain. 



As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees ! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain. 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, - 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops. 

Follows the water-drops 



ii6 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



Down to the graves of the dead, 
Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 
To the dreary fountain-head 
Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 
And sees them, when the rain is done, 
On the bridge of colors seven 
Climbing up once more to heaven, 
Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clea,r, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 



In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to 

birth. 
From earth to heaven, from heaven to 

earth ; 
Till glimpses more sublime 
Of things, unseen before. 
Unto his wondering eyes reveal 
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 
Turning forevermore 
In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 




TO THE DRIVING CLOUD. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas ; 
Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken ! 
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. 
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints .' 

How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the prairies .'' 
How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the mountain,- 
Ah ! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge 
Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pavements, 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division ! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash ! 

There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple 

Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 

Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches. 

There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses ! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn, 

Or by the roar of the Running- Water, or where the Omaha 

Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts ? 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 



THE OCCULTA TION OF ORION. 



117 



Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, 

And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man ? 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 

Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's 

Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires 

Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak 

Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race ; 

It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches ! 

Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind. 

Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thv wifnvams ! 




I SAW, as in a dream sublime. 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam impended ; 
And day, with all its hours of light, 
Was slowly sinking out of sight. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



While, opposite, the scale of night 


Serenely moving on her way 


Silently with the stars ascended. 


In hours of trial and dismay. 




As if she heard the voice of God, 


Like the astrologers of eld, 


Unharmed with naked feet she trod 


In that bright vision I beheld 


Upon the hot and burning stars, 


Greater and deeper mysteries. 


As on the glowing coals and bars. 


I saw, with its celestial keys, 


That were to prove her strength, and 


Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 


try 


The Samian's great ^olian lyre, 


Her holiness and her purity. 


Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 




From earth unto the fixed stars. 


Thus moving on, with silent pace, 


And through the dewy atmosphere, 


And triumph in her sweet, pale face. 


Not only could I see, but hear, 


She reached the station of Orion. 


Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 


Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 


In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 


And suddenly from his outstretched 


From Dian's circle light and near. 


arm 


Onward to vaster and wider rings. 


Down fell the red skin of the lion 


Where, chanting through his beard of 


Into the river at his feet. 


snows. 


His mighty club no longer beat 


Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, 


The forehead of the bull ; but he 


And down the sunless realms of space 


Reeled as of yore beside the sea. 


Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 


When, blinded by OJnopion, 




He sought the blacksmith at his 


Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 


forge, 


This music sounded like a march, 


And, climbing up the mountain gorge. 


And with its chorus seemed to be 


Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 


Preluding some great tragedy. 




Sirius was rising in the east ; 


Then, through the silence overhead, 


And, slow ascending one by one, 


An angel with a trumpet said. 


The kindling constellations shone. 


" Forevermore, forevermore. 


Begirt with many a blazing star, 


The reign of violence is o'er ! " 


Stood the great giant Algebar, 


And, like an instrument that flings 


Orion, hunter of the beast ! 


Its music on another's strings. 


His sword hung gleaming by his side, 


The trumpet of the angel cast 


And, on his arm, the lion's hide 


Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 


Scattered across the midnight air 


And on from sphere to sphere the 


The golden radiance of its hair. 


words 




Re-echoed down the burning chords, — 


The moon was pallid, but not faint ; 


" Forevermore, forevermore. 


And beautiful as some fair saint, 


The reign of violence is o'er 1 " 



SONGS. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the 
mist, 



And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 
That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing. 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 



DRINKING SONG. 



119 



That shall soothe this restless feel- 


Who, through long days of labor, 


ing, 


And nights devoid of ease, 


And banish the thoughts of day. 


Still heard in his soul the music 




Of wonderful melodies. 


Not from the grand old masters, 




Not from the bards sublime, 


Such songs have power to quiet 


Whose distant footsteps echo 


The restless pulse of care. 


Through the corridors of Time. 


And come like the benediction 




That follows after prayer. 


For, like strains of martial music. 




Their mighty thoughts suggest 


Then read from the treasured volume 


Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 


The poem of thy choice, 


And to-night I long for rest. 


And lend to the rhyme of the poet 




The beauty of thy voice. 


Read from some humbler poet, 




Whose songs gushed from his heart, 


And the night shall be filled with music, 


As showers from the clouds of sum- 


And the cares, that infest the day, 


mer. 


Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 


Or tears from the eyelids start ; 


And as silently steal away. 




DRINKING SONG. 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER. 

Come, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 

From the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 

Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 
On his breast his head is sunken, 

Vacantly he leers and chatters. 



Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that l:)row supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the na 
tions. 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 



120 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



Bore, as trophies and oblations, 


Claudius, though he sang of flagons 


Vines for banners, ploughs for ar- 


And huge tankards filled with Rhenish 


mor. 


From that fiery blood of dragons 




Never would his own replenish. 


Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, 




Much this mystic throng expresses : 


Even Redi, though he chaunted 


Bacchus was the type of vigor. 


Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys. 


And Silenus of excesses. 


Never drank the wine he vaunted 




In his dithyrambic sallies. 


These are ancient ethnic revels, 




Of a faith long since forsaken ; 


Then with water fill the pitcher 


Now the Satyrs, changed to devils. 


Wreathed about with classic fables ; 


Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 


Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 




Light upon Lucullus' tables. 


Now to rivulets from the mountains 




Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 


Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 


Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 


As it passes thus between us. 


Not in flasks, and casks, and cel- 


How its wavelets laugh and glisten 


lars. 


Tn the head of old Silenus ! 




TO AN OLD DANISH SONG- 
BOOK. 

Welcome, my old friend. 
Welcome to a foreign fireside. 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 

The ungrateful world 
Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, 
Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, 
First I met thee. 



There are marks of age. 
There are thumb-marks on thy margin. 
Made by hands that clasped thee rudely, 
At the alehouse. 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages. 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets. 



SEA- WEED. 121 


As the leaves with the libations 


Quiet, close, and warm, 


Of Olympus. 


Sheltered from all molestation, 




And recalling by their voices 


Yet dost thou recall 


Youth and travel. 


Days departed, half-forgotten, 




When in dreamy youth I wandered 




By the Baltic, — 


THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 


When I paused to hear 


I SHOT an arrow into the air. 


The old ballad of King Christian 


It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 


Shouted from suburban taverns 


For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 


In the twilight. 


Could not follow it in its flight. 


Thou recallest bards, 


I breathed a song into the air, 


Who, in solitary chambers, 


It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 


And with hearts by passion wasted, 


For who has sight so keen and strong. 


Wrote thy pages. 


That it can follow the flight of song ? 


Thou recallest homes 


Long, long afterwards in an oak - 


Where thy songs of love and friend- 


I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 


ship 


And the song, from beginning to end. 


Made the gloomy Northern winter 


I found again in the heart of a friend. 


Bright as summer. 




Once some ancient Scald, 


SEA-WEED. 


In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 




Chanted staves of these old ballads 


When descends on the Atlantic 


To the Vikings. 


The gigantic 




Storm-wind of the equinox. 


Once in Elsinore, 


Landward in his wrath he scourges 


At the court of old King Hamlet, 


The toiling surges. 


Yorick and his boon companions 


Laden with sea-weed from the rocks : 


Sang these ditties. 






From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 


Once Prince Frederick's Guard 


Of sunken ledges. 


Sang them in their smoky barracks ; — 


In some far-off, bright Azore ; 


Suddenly the English cannon 


From Bahama, and the dashing. 


Joined the chorus ! 


Silver-flashing 




Surges of San Salvador ; 


Peasants in the field. 




Sailors on the roaring ocean. 


From the tumbling surf, that buries 


Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, 


The Orkneyan skerries. 


All have sung them. 


Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 




And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 


Thou hast been their friend ; 


Spars, uplifting 


They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 


On the desolate, rainy seas ; — • 


Yet at least by one warm fireside 




Art thou welcome. 


Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 




On the shifting 


And, as swallows build 


Currents of the restless main ; 


In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys. 


Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 


So thy twittering songs shall nestle 


Of sandy beaches. 


In my bosom, — 


All have found repose again. 



122 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 




So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, erelong 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 

That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart ; 



Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart 



THE OLD CLOCK 
STAIRS. 



ON THE 



L'eternitfi est une pendule, dont le balancier dit 
et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans 
le silence des tombeaux: "Toiijoursl jamais! 
Jamais ! toujours 1 " Jacques Bridaine. 

Somewhat back from the village street 

Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw. 

And from its station in the hall 

An ancient timepiece says to all, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 

From its case of massive oak, 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAHiS. 



123 



i^,>^' 




Like a monk, who, under his cloak. 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 

"Forever — never! • 

Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall. 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say, at each chamber- 
door, — 

" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever 1 " 



In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 
His great fires up the chimney roared ; 
The stranger feasted at his board ; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played, 
There youths and maidens dreaming 

strayed ; 
O precious hours ! O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding 

night ; 
There, in that silent room below. 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 



124 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



And in the hush that followed the 


" Forever — Never ! 


prayer, 


Never — forever ! " 


Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 




"Forever — never ! 


Never here, forever there, 


Never — forever ! " 


"Where all parting, pain, and care, 




And death, and time shall disap 


All are scattered now and fled. 


pear, — 


Some are married, some are dead ; 


Forever there, but never here ! 


And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 


The horologe of Eternity 


" Ah ! when shall they all meet again, 


Sayeth this incessantly, — 


As in the days long since gone by ? " 


" Forever — never ! 


The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 


Never — forever ! " 




AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. 

The day is ending, 
The night is descending ; 
The marsh is frozen. 
The river dead. 

Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 
On village windows 
That glimmer red. 

The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 
Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows. 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 



The bell is pealing. 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing. 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 



WALTER VON DER VOGEL- 
WEID. 

VoGELWEiD the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours, 

Laid his body in the cloister. 

Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures. 
Gave them all with this behest : 



WAL TER VON DER VOGEL IVEID. 



125 



They should feed the birds at noon- 
tide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, " From these wandering min- 
strels 

I have learned the art of song ; 
Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 

Thus the bard of love departed ; 
And, fulfilling his desire. 



On the cross-bars of each window, 

On the lintel of each door, 
They renewed the War of Wartburg, 

Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols, 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, " Why this waste of food ? 




On his tomb the birds were feasted 
By the children of the choir. 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 
In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 

On the pavement, on the tombstone. 
On the poet's sculptured face. 



Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 
From the walls and woodland nests. 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 

Then in vain, with cries discordant. 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire. 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 



126 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 
Where repose the poet's bones. 



But around the vast cathedral, 
By sweet echoes multiplied. 

Still the birds repeat the legend. 
And the name of Vogelweid. 



SONNETS. 




AUTUMN. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the 

rain. 
With banners, by great gales incessant 

fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of Sam- 

arcand. 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold ; thy royal 

hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the 

land, 



Blessing the farms through all thy vast 

domain ! 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, sus- 
pended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhang- 

ing eaves ; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers 

attended ; 
Like flames upon an altar shine the 

sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation 

splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the 

golden leaves ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 



127 




DANTE. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the 
realms of gloom, 

With thoughtful pace, and sad, ma- 
jestic eyes, 

Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul 
arise, 

Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 
Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 

Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, 

What soft compassion glows, as in the 
skies 

The tender stars their clouded lamps 
relume ! 
Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid 
cheeks. 

By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 

As up the convent-walls, in golden 
streaks, 
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's 
decrease ; 

And, as he asks what there the stran- 
ger seeks. 

Thy voice along the cloister whispers, 
" Peace ! " 



tiil: evening star. 

Lo ! in the painted oriel of the West, 

Whose panes the sunken sun incarna- 
dines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, 
shines 

The evening star, the star of love and 
rest ! 
And then anon she doth herself di- 
vest 

Of all her radiant garments, and re- 
clines 

Behind the sombre screen of yonder 
pines. 

With slumber and soft dreams of love 
oppressed. 
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of 
love ! 

My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, 
As that fair planet in the sky above. 

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at 
night, 

And from thy darkened window fades 
the licrht. 




128 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 



TRANSLATIONS. 




THE HEMLOCK TREE. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

O HEMLOCK tree ! O hemlock tree ! how 

faithful are thy branches ! 

Green not alone in summer time, 

But in the winter's frost and rime ! 

O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how 

faithful are thy branches ! 

O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 
To love me in prosperity, 



And leave me in adversity ! 
O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how 
faithless is thy bosom ! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 

tak'st for thine example ! 

So long as summer laughs she sings, 

But in the autumn spreads her wings. 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou 

tak'st for thine example ! 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, 
is mirror of thy falsehood ! 
It flows so long as falls the rain, 



THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR. 1 29 


In drought its springs soon dry again. 


Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast 


The meadow brook, the meadow brook, 


obeyed, 


is mirror of thy falsehood ! 


Whatever forbidden thou hast not gain- 




said. 


ANNIE OF THARAW. 


How in the turmoil of life can love stand. 




Where there is not one heart, and one 


FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON 


mouth, and one hand .' 


DACH. 






Some seek for dissension, and trouble, 


Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old. 


and strife ; 


She is my life, and my goods, and my 


Like a dog and a cat live such man and 


gold. 


wife. 


Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 


Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 


To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 


Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my 




dove. 


Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good, 




Thou, my soul, my flesh and my blood ! 


Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be 




seen ; 


Then come the wild weather, come sleet 


I am king of the household, and thou art 


or come snow, 


its queen. 


We will stand by each other, however it 




blow. 


It is this, my Annie, my heart's sweet- 




est rest, 


Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow. 


That makes of us twain but one soul in 


and pain 


one breast. 


Shall be to our true love as links to the 




chain. 


This turns to a heaven the hut where we 




dwell ; 


As the palm-tree standeth so straight and 


While wrangling soon changes a home to 


so tall, 


a hell. 


The more the hail beats, and the more 




the rains fall, — 






THE STATUE OVER THE 


So love in our hearts shall grow mighty 


CATHEDRAL DOOR. 


and strong. 




Through crosses, through sorrows. 


FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 


through manifold wrong. 






Forms of saints and kings are standing 


Shouldst thou be torn from me to wan- 


The cathedral door above ; 


der alone 


Yet I saw but one among them 


In a desolate land where the sun is scarce 


Who hath soothed my soul with love. 


known, — 






In his mantle, — wound about him, 


Through forests I '11 follow, and where 


As their robes the sowers wind, — 


the sea flows. 


Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 


Through ice, and through iron, through 


Flowers and weeds of every kind. 


armies of foes. 






And so stands he calm and childlike. 


Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun. 


High in wind and tempest wild ; 


The threads of our two lives are woven 


0, were I like him exalted, 


in one. 




I would be like him, a child ! 



130 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 


And my songs, — green leaves and blos- 


Thou little, youthful maiden, 


soms, — 


Come unto my great heart ; 


To the doors of heaven would bear, 


My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 


Calling, even in storm and tempest. 


Are melting away with love ! 


Round me still these birds of air. 






POETIC APHORISMS. 


THE LEGEND OF THE CROSS- 




BILL, 


FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIED- 




RICH VON LOGAU. 


FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN. 






SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 


On the cross the dying Saviour 




Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm. 


MONEY. 


Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
In his pierced and bleeding palm. 


Whereunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood. 


And by all the world forsaken. 
Sees he how with zealous care 


Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 


At the ruthless nail of iron 


THE BEST MEDICINES. 


A little bird is striving there. 


Joy and Temperance and Repose 


Stained with blood and never tiring. 


Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 


With its beak it doth not cease. 


SIN. 


From the cross 'twould free the Sav- 


Man-like is it to fall into sin. 


iour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 


Fiend-like is it to dwell therein. 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 


And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 


God-like is it all sin to leave. 


" Blest be thou of all the good ! 


POVERTY AND BLINDNESS. 


Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 


A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind a 
poor man is ; 


And that bird is called the cross- 
bill ; 


For the former seeth no man, and the 
latter no man sees. 


Covered all with blood so clear, 


LAV/ OF LIFE. 


In the groves of pine it singeth 


Live I, so live I, 


Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 


To my Lord heartily. 




To my Prince faithfully, 


THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS. 


To my Neighbor honestly. 
Die I, so die I. 


FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE. 


CREEDS. 




Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these 


The sea hath its pearls, 


creeds and doctrines three 


The heaven hath its stars ; 


Extant are ; but still the doubt is, where 


But my heart, my heart. 


Christianity may be. 


My heart hath its love. 


THE RESTLESS HEART. 


Great are the sea and the heaven ; 


A MILLSTONE and the human heart are 


Yet greater is my heart. 


driven ever round ; 


And fairer than pearls and stars 


If they have nothing else to grind, they 


Flashes and beams my love. 


must themselves be ground. 



CURFEW. 



131 



CHRISTIAN LOVE. 
Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and comfort it bespoke ; 
But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us, like the smoke. 
ART AND TACT. 
Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 
RKTRIBUTION. 
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small ; 
Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. 

TRUTH. 
When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but a torch's fire, 
Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth silences the liar. 

RHYMES. 
If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not well in strangers' ears, 
They have only to bethink them that it happens so with theirs ; 
For so long as words, like mortals, call a fatherland their own, 
They will be most highly valued where they are best and longest known. 



CURFEW. 



Solemnly, mournfully, 

Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 

Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers. 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows. 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day ; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence. 

The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 

The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all. 




EVANGELINE. 

A TALE OF ACADIE. 




EVANGELINE. 



133 



This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it 
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? 
"Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — 
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven ? 
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed ! 
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean. 
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient. 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion, 
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest ; 
List to a Tale of T.ovc in Acadie, home of the hajjpy. 







PART Tin: FIRST. 



In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward. 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, 
Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood-gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows. 
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields 
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain ; and away to the northward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 
Looked on the haj^py valley, but ne'er from their station descended. 
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of chestnut, 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. 
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables projecting 
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset 
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, 
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 



134 



EVANGELINE. 




Flax for the gossiping looiiia, whobe noisy shuttles within doors 

Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. 

Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and maidens, 

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sank 

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry 

Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 

Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from 

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. 

Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows ; 

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners ; 

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 



Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, 
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand- Pre, 
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing his household, 
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. 
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers. 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside. 
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses ! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the coilgregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, 



EVANGELINE. 



Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, 
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirioom, 
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. 
But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — 
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, 
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. ^ 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. 



135 




Firmly buildcd wiih ratters of oak, the house of the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. 
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, 
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside, 
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. 
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard, 
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows ; 
There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his feathered seraglio, 



136 



EVANGELINE. 








Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 




^*""'''>V<';£rK^^ 



EVANGELINE. 137 



Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one 
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase, 
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates 
Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant breezes 
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand- Pre 
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. 
Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal, 
Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 
Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment ! 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, 
And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps. 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron ; 
Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, 
Bolder grew, anil pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered 



Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 

But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 

Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith. 

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men ; 

For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations. 

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 

Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhood 

Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father Felician, 

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters 

Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song. 

But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, 

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. 

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, 

Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel 

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darkness 



138 



EVANGELINE. 



Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through eveiy cranny and crevice, 
Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows, 
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 
" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for that was the sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples ; 
She, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance, 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 



'^^ «...i!X\.-'VC*-*»».\ < 







Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, 

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 

Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, 

Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 

Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds of September 

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel. 

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey 

Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted 

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, 

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints ! 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; and the landscape 

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean 

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. 



^ 



EVANGELINE. 



'39 



Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, 

Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons. 

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun 

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him ; 

While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, 

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest 

Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. 
Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. 
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, 
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer. 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 




Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks ironi uic seaside. 

Where was their favorite pasture. J5ehind them followed the watch-dog, 

Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, 

Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 

Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 

Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; their protector. 

When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. 

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes. 

Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. 

Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks. 

While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles. 

Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson. 

Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders 

Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular cadence 

Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 

Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, 

Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness j 

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors. 

Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 



I40 



EVANGELINE. 







^i{\'^W 



■h^4 



In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer 
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreaths 
Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic. 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. 
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards. 
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated. 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her. 
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle. 
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpijDe, 
Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments together. 
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases. 
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar. 
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted. 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, 
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 
"Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the threshold, 
" Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco ; 
Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams 
Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." 



EVANGELINE. 



141 



Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith, 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 
" Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad ! 
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. 
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe." 
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him. 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — 
" Eour days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors 
Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown ; but all are commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandate 




Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the mean time 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people." 
Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some friendlier purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England 
By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children." 
" Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, warmly, the blacksmith, 
Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, he continued : — 
" Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal. 
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts. 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 
Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds ; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower. 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — 



142 



EVANGELINE. 



" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, 

Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, 

Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon. 

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 

Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the contract. 

Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village 

Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe round about thcni 

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. 

Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. 

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children ? " 

As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's, 

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, 

And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. 




Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; 
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with horn bows 
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. 
Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English. 
Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, 
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. 
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; 



I 



EVANGELINE. 143 



For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 

And of the goblin that came in the night to water the ho ses, 

And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened 

Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children ; 

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, 

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell. 

And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes. 

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith. 

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, 

" Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast heard the talk in the village, 

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand." 

Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public, — 

" Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser ; 

And what their errand may be I know not better than others. 

Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 

Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest us ? " 

" God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith ; 

" Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore ? 

Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest ! " 

But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public, — 

" Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 

Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, 

When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal." 

This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it 

When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. 

" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember. 

Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 

Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand. 

And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 

Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. 

Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance. 

Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. 

But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; 

Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mighty 

Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace 

That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion 

Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household. 

She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold. 

Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 

As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 

Lo ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder 

Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand 

Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, 

And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, 

Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven." 

Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith 

Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language ; 

All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors 

Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed 



144 



EVANGELINE. 



Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre ; 

While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, 

Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, 

Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 

Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, 

And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. 

Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table 

Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver ; 

And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, 

Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 

Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, 

While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside. 

Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 

Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 

Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, 

Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-row. 




Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure. 
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows. 
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 



Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 
Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone, 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 



EVANGELL\E. 145 



Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 

Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 

Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. 

Simple that chamb.er was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-press 

Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 

Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 

This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage, 

Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 

Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 

Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maiden 

Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. 

Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 

Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 

Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard 

Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow. 

Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness 

Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight 

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass 

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, 

As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar ! 



Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre. 

Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 

Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor 

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. 

Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets. 

Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 

Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk 

Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 

Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward. 

Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. 

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. 

Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy groups at the house-doors 

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 

Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted ; 

For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, 

All things were held in common, and what one had was another's. 

Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant : 

For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father ; 

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness 

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated ; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white 
10 



146 



EVAXGEUNE. 







Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the fiddler 
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. 
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 
Tons les Bmcrgeois de Cliartres, and Le Carillon de Dwikerque, 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music. 
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 



{Pf> 



':^i^. 



y'' 




J 



EVANGELINE. 



M7 



Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ; 
Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter ! 
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And io ! with a summons sonorous 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. 
Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard, 
Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstones 
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor 
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 




Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, 

Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 

" You are convened this day," he said, " by his Majesty's orders. 

Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered his kindness, 

Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and my temjDer 

Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch ; 

Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds 

Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this province 

Be transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell there 

Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people ! 

Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is his Majesty's pleasure I " 

As, when tht air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer. 

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones 

Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows, 

Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs, 

Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ; 

So on the hearts of the jjeople descended the words of the speaker. 



1 48 E VANGELINE. 



Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose 

Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, 

And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the doorway. 

Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce imprecations 

Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the heads of the others 

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, 

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 

Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and wildly he shouted, — 

" Down with the tyrants of England ! we never have sworn them allegiance ! 

Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests ! " 

More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier 

Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. 
" What is this that ye do, my children ? what madness has seized you ? 
Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you. 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations ? 
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness ? 
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ? 
Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you ! 
See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion ! 
Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ' O Father, forgive them ! ' 
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us. 
Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father, forgive them ! ' " 
Few were his woixls of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people 
Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak. 
While they repeated his prayer, and said, " O Father, forgive them ! " 

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people responded. 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated. 
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. 
Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending. 
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each 
Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. 
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table ; 
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers ; 
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy ; 
And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. 
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset 



E VA NGEL INE. 1 49 



Threw the long sliadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. 
Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended, — 
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience I 
Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village. 
Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, 
As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 
Urged by their household cares, and the weaiy feet of their children. 
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors 
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. 
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. 
All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, 
" Gabriel ! " cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; but no answer 
Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted, 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. 
Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created ! 
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till morning. 



Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on the fifth day 
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession. 
Came from the neigliboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, 
Driving in ])onderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore. 
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. 
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the o.ven. 
While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and there on the sea-beach 
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply ; 
All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. 
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 
Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the chmchyard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. 
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, 
Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, 
So with songs on their lijjs the Acadian peasants descended 
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. 



15° 



EVANGELINE. 




Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together their voices, 

Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — 

" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible fountain ! 

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience ! " 

Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside 

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them 

Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence. 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — 
Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him. 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered, — 
" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another, 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen ! " 
Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect ! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstep 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. 
But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him. 



EVANGELINE. 



>5' 



Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gaspereau's month moved on that monrnful procession. 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children 
Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 
So unto separate ships were ISasil and Gabriel carried. 
While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight 
Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refluent ocean 
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 
Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, 
Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 




^^^'^;,^,i^§t:^;v^-^ 



Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean. 
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving 
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures ; 
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders ; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard, - 
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid. 
Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelus sounded. 
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered. 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish. 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering. 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore. 
Thus he ap])roached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man. 



'52 



EVANGELINE. 




Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, 

E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. 

Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, 

Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not. 

But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. 

" Benedkite!" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 

More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents 

Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold. 

Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. 

Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden. 

Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them 

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals. 

Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon 
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, 
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. 
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village. 
Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. 
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting. 
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 



These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. 
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 



EVANGELINE. 




" We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Graiul-Pre ! " 

Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, 

Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle 

Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. 

Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments 

Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 

When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, 

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 

Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses 

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them : 




154 EVANGELINE. 



And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, 

Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shore 

Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 

Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 

Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 

Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. 

Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 

And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 

Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, 

Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 

Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape. 

Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, 

And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 

Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 

" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 

Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 

Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard." 

Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, 

Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches. 

But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre. 

And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 

Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation. 

Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 

'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean. 

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. 

Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 

And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor. 

Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. 



PART THE SECOND. 



Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre, 
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed. 
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, 
Exile without an end, and without an example in story. 
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed ; 
Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeast' 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. 
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, — 
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters- 
Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean. 
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. 
Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken,. 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside- 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. 
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered. 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 
Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended. 
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 



I 



EVANGELINE. 



Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before hoi. 

Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, 

As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by 

Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. 

Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; 

As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 

Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 

Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 

Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, 

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit. 

She would commence again her endless search and endeavor ; 

Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones. 

Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom 

He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 

Sometimes a rumor, a liearsay, an inarticulate whisper. 

Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 

Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him. 

But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " they said ; " O yes ! we have seen him. 

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies ; 

Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers." 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " O yes ! we have seen him. 

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 

Then would they say, " Dear child ! why dream and wait for hini longer i* 

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel .' others 

Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal .' 

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee 

Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be happy ! 

Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses." 

Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, " I cannot ! 

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere. 

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway. 

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness." 

Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, 

Said, with a smile, " O daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within thee ! 

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 

Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment ; 

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. 

Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy work of affection ! 

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 

Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike. 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven ! " 

Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean. 

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, " Despair not ! ''' 

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort. 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 

Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's footsteps ; — 

Not through each devious j^ath, each changeful year of existence ; 

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley : 

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 

Here and there, in some o])en space, and at intervals onlv ; 



156 



EVANGELIXE. 



Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, 
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 
Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. 



It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, 
Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, 
Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 
Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 
It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked 
Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 
Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune ; 
Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, 
Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 
On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 













With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. 

Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests. 

Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 

Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike 

Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current. 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 

Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, 

Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. 

Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 

Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens. 

Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. 

They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summei. 

Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron. 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou of Placjiiemine- 

Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, 



EVANGELINE. 



57 



Which, like a network of steel, extended in 

every direction. 
Over their heads the towering and tenebrous 

boughs of the cypress 
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in 

mid-air 
Waved like banners that hang on the walls 

of ancient cathedrals. 
Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, 

save by the herons 
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees re- 
turning at sunset, 
Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with 

demoniac laughter. 
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and 

gleamed on the water. 
Gleamed on the columns of cypress and 

cedar sustaining the arches, 
Down through whose broken vaults it fell as 

through chinks in a ruin. 
Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were 

all things around them ; 
And o'er their spirits there came a feelini; 

of wonder and sadness, — 
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that 

cannot be compassed. 
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the 

turf of the prairies, 
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the 

shrinking mimosa. 
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad fore- 
bodings of evil. 
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke 

of doom has attained it. 
But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a 

vision, that faintly 
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her 

on through the moonlight. 
It was the thought of her brain that assumed 

the shape of a phantom. 
Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel 

wandered before her, 
And every stroke of the oar now brouglit 

him nearer and nearer. 




Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, 

And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure 

Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. 

Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, 

Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 

Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. 

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 

Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; 



158 



EVANGELINE. 



But not a voice replied ; no answer came 

from the darkness ; 
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a 

sense of pain was tlie silence. 
Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen 

rowed through the midnight. 
Silent at times, then singing familiar 

Canadian boat-songs, 
Such as they sang of old on their own 

Acadian rivers, 
While through the night were heard the 

mysterious sounds of the desert. 
Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or 

wind in the forest. 
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and 

the roar of the grim alligator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged 
from the shades ; and before them 
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the 

Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the 

slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplen- 
dent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads 

of the boatmen. 
Faint was the air with the odorous breath 

of magnolia blossoms. 
And with the heat of noon ; and number- 
less sylvan islands, 
Fragrant and thickly embowered with 

blossoming hedges of roses. 
Near to whose shores they glided along, 

invited to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their weary 

oars were suspended. 
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, 

that grew by the margin, 
Safely their boat was moored ; and scat- 
tered about on the greensward. 
Tired with their midnight toil, the weary 

travellers slumbered. 
Over them vast and high extended the 
cope of a cedar. 

Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grape-vine 
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, 
On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 
Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. 
Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. 
Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 




EVANGELINE. 



^59 




Nearer and ever nearer, among the nuniljerless islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless. 
Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 
Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island. 
But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, 
So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows ; 
All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers 
Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. 
Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. 
After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, 
As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden 
Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, " O Father F^lician ! 
Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 
Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 
Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ? " 
Then, with a blush, she added, " Alas for my credulous fancy I 
Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning." 
But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, — 
" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to me without meaning. 
Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on the surface 
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. 
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusion.s. 



i6o 



EVANGELINE. 



Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away 

to the southward, 
On the banks of the Teche, are the towns^ 

of St. Maur and St. Martin. 
There the long-wandering bride shall be 

given again to her bridegroom, 
There the long-absent pastor regain his flock 

and his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and 

forests of fruit-trees ; 
Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the 

bluest of heavens 
Bending above, and resting its dome on the 

walls of the forest ; 
They who dwell there have named it the 

Eden of Louisiana." 

With these words of cheer they arose and 
continued their journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the 

western horizon 
Like a magician extended .his golden wand 

o'er the landscape ; 
Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water 

and forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted 

and mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with 

edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on 

the motionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inex- 
pressible sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred foun- 
tains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies 

and waters around her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the mock- 
ing-bird, wildest of singers. 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung 

o'er the water. 
Shook from his little throat such floods of 

delirious music, 
That the whole air and the woods and the 
waves seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches. 
With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion. 
Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas, 




EVANGELINE. 



i6i 



A.nd, through the amber air, above the crest 
of the woodland, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a 
neighboring dwelling ; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the dis- 
tant lowing of cattle. 



Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed 
by oaks, from whose branches 

Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic 
mistletoe flaunted, 

Such as the Druids cut down with golden 
hatchets at Yule-tide, 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of tin 
herdsman. A garden 

Girded it round about with a belt of luxu- 
riant blossoms, 

Filling the air with fragrance. The house 
itself was of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully i 
fitted together. j 

Large and low was the roof; and on slender 
columns supported, 

Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and 
spacious veranda, 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, 
extended around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the flowers 
of the garden. 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's per- 
petual symbol. 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless con- 
tentions of rivals. 

Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of 
shadow and sunshine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the 
house itself was in shadow, 

And from its chimney-top, ascending and 
slowly expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of 
smoke rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the garden 
gate, ran a pathway 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, 
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 
Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, 
Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 
II 




'^ity^x^^ 



:Ulr^ 



l62 



EVANGELINE. 




Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. 

Broad and browii was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero 

Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. 

Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing 

Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness 

That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. 

Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 

Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 

Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. 

Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle 

Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. 

Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie, 

And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 

Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the garden 

Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. 

Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward 

Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; 

When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith. 

Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 

There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer 

Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, 

Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. 

Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark doubts and misgivings 

Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, 

Broke the silence and said, " If you came by the Atchafalaya, 

How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous t " 

Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed. 

Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, 

" Gone ? is Gabriel gone ? " and, concealing her face on his shoulder, 



EVANGELINE. 



163 




All her o'erhurdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. 

Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — 

"Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed. 

Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. 

Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence. 

Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 

Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 

He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 

Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent him 

Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. 

Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, 

Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 

Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugitive lover ; 

He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him. 

Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning 

We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river. 
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler. 
Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 



1 64 EVANGELINE. 



Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals. 

Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 

" Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian minstrel ! " 

As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and straightway 

Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man 

Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured. 

Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, 

Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 

Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith. 

All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor ; 

Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate, 

And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take them ; 

Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. 

Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda, 

Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 

Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 
All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver. 
Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within doors. 
Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight. 
Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman 
Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. 
Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco. 
Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened : — 
" Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless. 
Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one ! 
Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers ; 
Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 
Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the watci. 
All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and grass grows 
More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 
Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies ; 
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 
After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, 
No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, 
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle." 
.Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils. 
While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table, 
So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded. 
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. 
But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer : — 
" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever ! 
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate. 
Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nutshell ! " 
Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching 
Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. 
It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 
Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the herdsman. 
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors : 
Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who before were as strangers, 
Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends- to each other. 



EVANGEUAE. 165 



Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 

But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding 

From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious fiddle, 

Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, 

All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening 

Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music. 

Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herdsman 
Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 
Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 
Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. 
Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river 
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden 
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dew^-, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings. 
As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees. 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens. 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple. 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, " Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies. 
Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel ! O my beloved ! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around nn. ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. 
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ? " 
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoorwill sounded 
Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the neighboring thickets 
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. 
" Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness ; 
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, " To-morrow ! " 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers of the garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses 
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. 
" Farewell ! " said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold ; 
" See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his fasting and famine, 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was coming." 



i66 



EVANGELINE. 



" Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended 

Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. 

Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and gladness, 

Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, 

Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 

Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, 

Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 

Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and uncertain 

Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate countr)' ; 

Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 

Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous landlord, 

That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, 

Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. 




Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains 
Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. 
Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gateway 
Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's wagon, 
Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 
Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, 
Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; 



EVANGELINE. 



167 



And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-boiit and the Spanish sierras, 
Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, 
Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, 
Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 
Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies, 
Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine. 
Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas. 
Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck ; 
Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses ; 
Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel ; 
Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children. 
Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war-trails 
Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, 
Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, 
By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 
Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauders ; 
Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers ; 
And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, 




Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brookside, 
And over all is the sky, the clear and ciystalline heaven, 
Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 



Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil 
Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o'ertake him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at nightfall, 
When they had reached the place, they found only embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 
Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered 
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features 
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. 
She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 
From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. 



i68 



EVANGELINE. 




Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest welcome 

Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 

On the buffalo meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 

But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions. 

Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and the bison, 

Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire-light 

Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their blankets. 

Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated 

Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 

All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. 

Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 

Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. 

Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compassion, 

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, 

She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 

Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious horror 

Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the Mowis ; 

Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, 

But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, 



E VA NGELINE. 1 69 



Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, 

Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest 

Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, 

Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom. 

That, through tht. pines o'er her father's lodge, in the hush of the twilight, 

Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, 

Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest. 

And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people. 

Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 

To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her 

Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress. 

Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose. 

Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor 

Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodlantl. 

With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 

Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 

Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a secret, 

Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 

As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. 

It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 

Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a moment 

That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. 

With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, " On the western slope of these mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. 
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ; 
Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him." 
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, 
" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur of the mountains. 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices. 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river. 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village. 
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grape-vines, 
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers. 
Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. 
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching. 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. 
But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 
Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them 
Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, 
Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest. 
And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigAvam. 
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize-ear 
Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. 
Soon was their story told ; and tht priest with solemnity answered : — 



lyo 



E VANGELINE. 



" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 

On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 

Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued his journey ! " 

Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kindness 

But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes 

Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 

" Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest ; " but in autumn, 

When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission." 

Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, 

" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted." 

So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on the morrow, 




Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, 
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 
Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of maize that were springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover. 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the cornfield. 
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. 



i 



E VANGELINE. 1 7 1 



" Patience ! " the priest would say ; " have faith, and thy prayer will be answered 1 

Look at this delicate plant that lifts its head from the meadow, 

See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet ; 

This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted 

Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey 

Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 

Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion. 

Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance. 

But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly. 

Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 

Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepenthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel came not ; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. 
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, 
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River. 
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, 
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches. 
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 
Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to ruin ! 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey ; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty. 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her forehead, 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, 
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 



In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle. 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty. 
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest, 
As if they fain would ajij^ease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile. 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 
There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he departed. 
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, 
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stranger ; 



172 



EVANGELINE. 



And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, 

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, 

Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining. 

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her footsteps. 

As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us. 

Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets. 

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below ht 1. 

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway 

Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance 

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 




Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him. 
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 
Over him years had no power ; he was not changed, but transfigures. 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent ; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some oaorous spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; frequenting 
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, 
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight. 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 



i 



EVANGELIA'E. 



173 




Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman repeated 

Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city. 

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market. 

Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 



Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons. 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin, 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor ; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants. 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands ; — 
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord : — " The poor ye always have with you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 
Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles, 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. 
Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, 
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. 



174 



EVANGELINE. 



Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent, 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the ahnshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden ; 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them. 
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east-wind. 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit ; 




Something within her said, " At length thy trials are ended ; " 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants. 
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered. 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, 
Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time ; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 



k 



EVANGELINE. 



'75 




Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 
Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 
Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her fingers, 
And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 
Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 
That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 
On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 
Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his tem])les ; 
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood ; 
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 
As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its portals. 
That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness. 
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. 
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 
"Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away into silence. 



176 EVANGELINE. 



Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them. 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under their shadow, 

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken 

Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank into darkness, 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience ! 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank thee ! "' 




Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away from its shadow 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy. 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors. 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 



EVANGELINE. 



m 




Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 

Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. 

In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy ; 

Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespuii 

And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, 

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 




THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 



DEDICATION. 

As one who, walking in the twilight 
gloom, 
Hears round about him voices as it 
darkens, 
And seeing not the forms from which 
they come, 
Pauses from time to time, and turns 
and hearkens ; 

So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 
I hear your voices, softened by the 
distance, 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each 
sends 
His words of friendship, comfort, and 
assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or 
told, 
Has ever given delight or consola- 
tion, 
Ye have repaid me back a thousand- 
fold. 
By every friendly sign and salutation. 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have 
shown ! 
Thanks for each kindly word, each si- 
lent token. 
That teaches me, when seeming most 
alone. 
Friends are around us, though no word 
be spoken. 

Kind messages, that pass from land to 
land ; 
Kind letters, that betray the heart's 
deep history. 
In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 
One touch of fire, — and all the rest is 
mystery ! 

The pleasant books, that silently among 
Our household treasures take familiar 
places, 



And are to us as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pic- 
tured faces ! 

Perhaps on earth I never shall be- 
hold, 
With eye of sense, your outward form 
and semblance ; 
Therefore to me ye never will grow 
old. 
But live forever young in my remem- 
brance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass 
away ! 
Your gentle voices will flow on for- 
ever. 
When life grows bare and tarnished with 
decay. 
As through a leafless landscape flows a 
river. 

Not chance of birth or place has made 
us friends. 
Being oftentimes of different tongues 
and nations. 
But the endeavor for the selfsame 
ends. 
With the same hopes, and fears, and 
aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside 
walk. 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with 
emotion ; 
Not interrupting with intrusive talk 
The grand, majestic symphonies of 
ocean. 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome 
guest, 
At your warm fi'eside, when the lamps 
are lighted, 
To have my place reserved among the 
rest, 
Nor stand as one unsought and un 
invited ! 



I 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



179 



B\' I^lIK SEAS! I) K. 




THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master ! 

Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel. 
That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wres- 
tle ! " 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the 

heart 
Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 
As the eddies and dimples of the tide 
Play round the bows of ships. 
That steadilv at anchor ride. 



And lirst with nicest sl^iil and art, 
Perfect and finished in every part, 
A little model the Master wrought, 
Which should be to the larger plan 
What the child is to the man, 
Its counterpart in miniature ; 
That with a hand more swift and sure 
The greater labor might be brought 
To answer to his inward thought. 
And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 
The various ships that were built of yore, 
And above them all, and strangest o*" 

all 
Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 
Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
With bows and stern raised high in air, 
And balconies hanging here and there, 
And sisfnal lanterns and flags afloat. 




that 



.'Vnd with a 

glee, 
He answered, 
A \essel as 

stanch, 
As ever weathered a wintrv sea ! " 



full of 



' Erelong we will launch 
goodly, and strong, and 



And eight round towers, like those thai 

frown 
From some old castle, looking down 
Upon the drawbridge and the moat 
And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 
Shall be of another firm than this ! "' 



i8o 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



■■^ 




It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the 

blast, 
Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 



Closing behind, with mighty force, 
Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Waster, 
With the model of the vessel, 

That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 




Broad in the beam, but sloping all 
With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
That she might be docile to the helm, 
And that the currents of parted seas. 



Covering many a rood ot groLUn.1, 
Lay the timber piled around ; 
Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 
And scattered here and there, with these, 



I 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 

Brought from regions far away, 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 

There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 

Hut every climate, every soil, 

.Nfust bring its tribute, great or small, 

And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 

And long the level shadows lay. 

As if they, too, the beams would be 

Of some great, airy argosy, 

Framed and launched in a single clay. 

That silent architect, the sun. 

Had hewn and laid them every one. 

Ere the work of man was yet begun. 

Beside the Master, when he spoke, 

A youth, against an anchor leaning, 

Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 

Only the long waves, as they broke 

In ripples on the pebbly beach. 

Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth. 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity. 

The heir of his house, and his daughter's 

hand, 
When he had built and launched from land 
What the elder head had planned. 

"Thus," said he, "will we build this 

ship ! 
Lay scjuare the blocks upon the slip. 
And follow well this plan of mine. 
Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 
Of all that is unsound beware ; 
For only what is sound and strong 
To this vessel shall belong. 
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 
A goodly frame, and a goodly fame. 
And the Union be her name ! 
For the day that gives her to the sea 
Shall give my daughter luito thcc I " 



The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside. 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride. 

Standing before 

Her father's door. 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and 

fair, 
With the breath of morn and the soft sea 

air. 
Like a iicauteous barge was she. 
Still at rest on the sandy beach. 
Just beyond the billow's reach ; 
But he 
Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain. 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far e.xcelleth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun. 

And soon throughout the shipyard's 

bounds 
Were heard the intermingled sounds 
Of axes and of mallets, plied 
With vigorous arms on every side ; 
Plied so deftly and so well. 
That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 
The keel of oak for a noble ship, 
Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong. 
Was lying ready, and stretched along 
The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 
Happy, thrice happy, every one 
Who sees his labor well begun. 
And not perplexed and multiplied, 
By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill, 
The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales. 
Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 
And ships that never came back again, 
The chance and cliaiv.^e of a sailor's life, 



BY THE SEASIDE. 




Want and plenty, rest and striJc, 

His roving fancy, like the wind. 

That nothing can stay and nothing can 

bind, 
And the magic charm of foreign lands, 
With shadows of palms, and shining 

sands, 
Where the tumbling surf. 
O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf 
And tlie trembling maiden held her breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 
With all its terror and mystery. 
The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind ! 
And whenever the old man paused, a 

gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile 

illume 
The silent grou]5 in the twilight gloom, 



And thoughtful faces, as ui a dream ; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark, 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest. 
Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 
With timbers fashioned strong and true, 
Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee. 
Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 
A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 
And around the bows and along the side 
The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 
Till after many a week, at length. 
Wonderful for form and strength, 
Sublime in its enormous bulk. 
Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 
And around it columns of smoke, up- 
wreathing. 
Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 
Caldron, that glowed. 



THE BUILDIXG OF THE SHIP. 



183 




And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheath- 
ing. 
And amid the clamors 
Of clattering hammers, 
He who listened heard now and then 
The song of the Master and his men : — 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

With oaken brace and copper band. 

Lay the rudder on the sand, 

That, like a thought, should have control 



And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing 

blast ! 
And at the bows an image stood. 
By a cunning artist carved in wood, 
With robes of white, that far behind 
Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 
It was not shaped in a classic mould. 
Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old. 
Or Naiad rising from the water. 
But modelled from the Master's daughter ! 
On many a dreaiy and misty night, 
'T will be seen by the rays of the signal 

light. 
Speeding along through the rain and the 

dark. 




Over the movement of tlie whole ; 
And near it the anchor whose giant hand 
Would reach down and grapple with the 
land. 



Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
The pilot of some phantom bark, 
Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 
V>s a path none other knows aright ! 



i84 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



Behold, at last, 


Whose roar 


Each tall and tapering mast 


Would remind them forevermore 


Is swung into its place ; 


Of their native forests they should not ^ee 


Shrouds and stays 


again. 


Holding it firm and fast ! 






And everywhere 


Long ago. 


The slender, graceful spars 


In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 


Poise aloft in the air, 


When upon ni untain and plain 


And It the mist head. 




Lay the snow. 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and 

tall, 
To be shorn of their streaming hair, 
And, naked and bare. 
To feel the stress and the strain 
Of the wind and the reeling main, 



White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friend- 
less, 

In foreign harbors shall behold 

That flag unrolled, 

'T will be as a friendly hand 

Stretched out from his native land. 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and 
endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 
Has come the bridal day 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



f85 




Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all its splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old. 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled. 

Paces restless to and fro. 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide. 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaxing of his breast. 



In honor ol i-.cM marnai;i; day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blend 

ing, 
Round her like a veil descending. 
Ready to be 
The bride of the gray old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds. 
Broken by many a sunny fleck. 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 
The service read. 




He waits impatient for his bride. 
There she stands. 
With her foot upon the sands. 
Decked with flags and streamers gay. 



The joyous bridegroom bows his iiead 
And in tears the good old Master 
Shakes the brown hand of his son. 
Kisses his daughter's glowing clitck 



i86 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock. 

That has the ocean for its wold. 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 



" Like unto ships far off at sea, 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 

Before, behind, and all around. 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 

And then again to turn and sink. 

As if we could slide from its outer brink 

Ah ! it is not the sea, 




Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs, 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow, 

And lift and drift, with terrible force. 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he sj-iak". and thus said lie : — 



It is not the sea that sinks and shelves. 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion. 

Now touching the very skies. 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring. 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do, 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 



I 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 



187 



The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining 

beach 
The sights we see, and the sounds we 

hear, 
Will be those of joy and not of fear ! " 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word. 

Loud and sudden there was heard. 

All around them and below. 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! slie stirs ! 



Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care ! 
Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 
Through wind and wave, right onward 

steer ! 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
l'rp\-,il n'pr niv.n- vv IX ,■ md trust ; 




She starts, — she moves, — she seems to 

feel 
The thrill of life along her keel. 
And, spurning with her foot the ground. 
With one exulting, joyous bound. 
She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 
" Take her, O bridegroom, old and 

gray, 
Take her to thy protecting arms, 
With all her youth and all her charms ! " 

Mow beautiful she is ! How fair 
She lies within those arms that press 



And in the wreck ot noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity with all its fears. 
With all the hopes of future years. 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel. 
What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail, and 

rope, 
\\'hat anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 



i88 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



'T is but the flapping of the sail, 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore, 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 



Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, 
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our 

tears. 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 




CHRYSAOK. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 

As the day grows fainter and dimmer. 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 

Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the train of its golden splendor, 
And the gleam of that single star 

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 



Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, 

Showed thus glorious and thus emu- 
lous, 
Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 

Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. 

Thus o'er the ocean faint and far 

Trailed the gleam of his falchion 
brightly ; 

Is it a God, or is it a star 

That, entranced, I gaze on nightly ! 




THE SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Ah ! what pleasant visions haunt me 

As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantic legends, 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal. 
Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 

And the singing of the sailors, 
And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long. 

Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor's mystic song. 




Like the long waves on a sea- 
beach, 

Where the sand as silver shines. 
With a soft, monotonous cadence. 

Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
With his hawk upon his hand. 

Saw a fair and stately galley. 
Steering onward to the land ; — 

How he heard the ancient he'ms- 
man 

Chant a song so wild and clear, 
That the sailing sea-bird slowly 

Poised upon the mast to hear. 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 



189 




Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong, — 

" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " 

" Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman 
answered, 

" Learn the secret of the sea ? 
Only those who brave its dangers 

Comprehend its mystery ! " 

In each sail that skims the horizon, 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley. 
Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea. 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD. 

We sat within the farm-house old. 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 



Clave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold. 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port. 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town. 
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort. 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight. 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene. 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was 
dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends. 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 



190 



BY THE SEASIDE. 




The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but 
mark; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 
As suddenly, from out the fire 

Built of the wreck of stranded ships. 
The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main. 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, 

The gusty blast, the bickering flames. 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain, 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back asrain. 



O flames that glowed ! O hearts that 
yearned ! 
They were indeed too much akin. 
The drift-wood fire without that burned, 
The thoughts that burned and glowed 
within. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
And on its outer point, some miles 
away. 
The Lighthouse lifts its massive ma- 
sonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by 
day. 

Even at this distance I can see the 
tides, 
Upheaving, break unheard along its 
base, 
A speechless wrath, that rises ar d sub- 
sides 
Li the white lip and tremor of the face. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 



191 



And as the evening darkens, lo ! how 
bright, 
Through the deep purple of the twi- 
light air, 
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its 
light 
With strange, unearthly splendor in 
the rrlare ! 



And ever joyful, as they see it bum. 
They wave their silent welcomes and 
farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and 
their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the 

blaze. 




Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean's 
verge. 
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, 
Holding its lantern o'er the restless 
surge. 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous 
wave, 
Wading far out among the rocks and 
sands. 
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save. 

And the great ships sail outward and 
return. 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy 
swJls, 



And eager faces, as the light unveils, 
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while 
they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 
On his first voyage, he saw it fade and 
sink ; 
And when, returning from adventures 
wild, 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's 
brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 

Year after year, through all the silent 

night 

Burns on forevermore that quenchless 

flame. 

Shines on that inextinguishable light I 



192 



BY THE SEASIDE. 



It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 
The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss 
of peace ; 

It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the 
rain. 
And steadily against its solid form 

Press the great shoulders of the hur- 
ricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the 
din 
Of wings and winds and solitary cries. 
Blinded and maddened by the light within, 
Dashes himself against the glare, and 
dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the 
shock, 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 

Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately 

ships ! 
And with your floating bridge the 
ocean span ; 
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse. 
Be yours to bring man nearer unto 
man ! " 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

Southward with fleet of ice 
Sailed the corsair Death ; 

Wild and fast blew the blast. 

And the east-wind was his breath. 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glisten in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide. 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 

Dripped with silver rain ; 
But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 



Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 

Alas ! the land-wind failed. 
And ice-cold grew the night ; 

And nevermore, on sea or shore, 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck. 

The Book was in his hand ; 
" Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 

He said, " by water as by land ! " 

In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal's sound, 
Out of the sea, mysteriously. 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 
Were hanging in the shrouds ; 

Every mast, as it passed. 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize, 
At midnight black and cold ; 

As of a rock was the shock ; 
Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark. 

They drift in close embrace. 
With mist and rain, o'er the open main : 

Yet there seems no change of place. 

Southward, forever southward. 
They drift through dark and day ; 

And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 



TWILIGHT. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy. 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 

Close, close it is pressed to the window, 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness, 

To see some form arise. 



Jf 



TWILIGHT. 



'93 




And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean. 
And the night-wind, bleak and wild, 






As they beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child ? 

And why do the roaring ocean. 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak. 

As they beat at the heart of the mother 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 




194 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and 
tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children 
crying, 
Will not be comforted ! 



Is but a suburb of the life elysian. 
Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affec- 
tion, — 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor 
protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and se- 
clusion. 
By guardian angels led, 




Let us be patient ! These severe afflic- 
tions 

Not from the ground arise. 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is 
transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 



Safe from temptation, safe from sin's 
pollution. 
She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air ; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep 
unbroken 
The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken. 
May reach her where she lives. 



THE BUILDERS. 



195 




Not as a child shall we agahi behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's man- 
sion. 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expan- 
sion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with 
emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean, 
That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feel- 
ing 

We may not wholly stay ; 
Ry silence sanctifying, not concealing. 

The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDERS. 

ALL^are architects of Fate, 

Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion those ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees. 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 



196 



BV THE FIRESIDE. 



Each minute and unseen part ; 
For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, where Gods 
dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 
Standing in these walls of Time, 



may 



Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure. 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending and secure 
Shall to-morrow find its place. 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 




SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN 
HOUR-GLASS. 

A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot 
clime 
Of Arab deserts brought. 
Within this glass becomes the spy of 
Time, 
The minister of Thought. 

How many weary centuries has it been 
About those deserts blown ! 

How many strange vicissitudes has seen. 
How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 
Trampled and passed it o'er. 

When into Egypt from the patriarch's 
sight 
His favorite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare. 
Crushed it beneath their tread ; 

Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 
Scattered it as they sped ; 



Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 

Held close in her caress, 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and 
faith 

Illumed the wilderness. 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms 
Pacing the Dead Sea beach. 

And singing slow their old Armenian 
psalms 
In half-articulate speech ; 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 
With westward steps depart ; 

Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, 
And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may have 
passed ! 

Now in this crystal tower 
Imprisoned by some curious hand at last. 

It counts the passing hour. 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; 
Before my dreamy eye 






KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. 



197 



Stretches the desert with its shifting 
sand, 
Its unimpeded sky. 

And borne aloft by the sustaining 
blast, 

This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 



And onward, and across the setting sun, 
Across the boundless plain, 

The column and its broader shadow run. 
Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls again 

Shut out the lurid sun. 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run ! 




KING WITLAF'S DRINKING- 
HORN. 

WiTLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — • 

That, whenever they sat at their revels. 
And drank from the golden bowl* 

They might remember the donor. 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 

And bade the goblet pass ; 
In their beards the red wine glistened 

Like dew-drops in the grass. 

They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 



And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 
Who had preached his holy word- 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit. 
Like the murmur of many bees. 

The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 
And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent. 
From their prison in the tower, 

Guthlac and Uartholomxus, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney 
And the Abbot bowed his head, 



198 BY THE FIRESIDE. 


And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 


Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and 


But the Abbot was stark and dead. 


wrongs, 




The sound of winged words. 


Yet still in his pallid fingers 




He clutched the golden bowl, 


This is the cry 


In which, like a pearl dissolving. 


Of souls, that high 


Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 


On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 




Seeking a warmer clime. 


But not for this their revels 




The jovial monks forbore, 


From their distant flight 


For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 


Through realms of light 


We must drink to one Saint more ! " 


It falls into our world of night. 




With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 






CASPAR BECERRA. 


Black shadows fall 




From the lindens tall, 


By his evening fire the artist 


That lift aloft their massive wall 


Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 


Against the southern sky ; 


Baffled, weary, and disheartened. 




Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 


And from the realms 




Of the shadowy elms 


'T was an image of the Virgin 


A tide-like darkness overwhelms 


That had tasked his utmost skill ; 


The fields that round us lie. 


But, alas ! his fair ideal 




Vanished and escaped him still. 


But the night is fair, 




And everywhere 


From a distant Eastern island 


A warm, soft vapor fills the air, 


Had the precious wood been brought ; 


And distant sounds seem near ; 


Day and night the anxious master 




At his toil untiring wrought ; 


And above, in the light 




Of the star-lit night. 


Till, discouraged and desponding, 


Swift birds of passage wing their flight 


Sat he now in shadows deep. 


Through the dewy atmosphere. 


And the day's humiliation 




Found oblivion in sleep. 


I hear the beat 




Of their pinions fleet. 


Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master ! 


As from the land of snow and sleet 


From the burning brand of oak 


They seek a southern lea. 


Shape the thought that stirs within 




thee ! " 


I hear the cry 


And the startled artist woke, — 


Of their voices high 


• 


Falling dreamily through the sky. 


Woke, and from the smoking embers 


But their forms I cannot see. 


Seized and quenched the glowing 




wood ; 


0, say not so ; 


And therefrom he carved an image, 


Those sounds that flow 


And he saw that it was good. 


In murmurs of delight and woe 




Come not from wings of birds. 


thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 




Take this lesson to thy heart : 


They are the throngs 


That is best which lieth nearest ; 


Of the poet's songs, 


Shape from that thy work of art. 



PEGASUS IN FOUND. 



199 



rf^^r . 



-A 










THE OPEN WINDOW. 

The old house by the lindens 

Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathwaj- 

The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air ; 
But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door ; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens. 
They played not in the hall ; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches. 
With sweet, familiar tone ; 

But the voices of the children 
Will be heard in dreams alone ! 



And the boy that walked beside me, 
He could not understand 

Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 



PEGASUS IN POUND. 

Once into a quiet village. 

Without haste and without heed, 

In the golden prime of morning. 
Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and 
sheaves. 
And, like living coals, the apples 

Burned among the withering leaves. 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

'T was the daily call to labor. 
Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscajH', 
In its gleaming vajwr veiled ; 



200 BY THE FIRESIDE. 


Not the less he breathed the odors 


TEGNER'S DRAPA. 


That the dying leaves exhaled. 






I HEARD a voice, that cried, 


Thus, upon the village common, 


" Balder the Beautiful 


By the school-boys he was found ; 


Is dead, is dead ! " 


And the wise men, in their wisdom, 


And through the misty air 


Put him straightway into pound. 


Passed like the mournful cry 




Of sunward sailing cranes. 


Then the sombre village crier. 




Ringing loud his brazen bell. 


I saw the pallid corpse 


Wandered down the street proclaiming 


Of the dead sun 


There was an estray to sell. 


Borne through the Northern sky. 




Blasts from Niffelheim 


And the curious country people, 


Lifted the sheeted mists 


Rich and poor, and young and old. 


Around him as he passed. 


Came in haste to see this wondrous 




Winged steed, with mane of gold. 


And the voice forever cried. 




" Balder the Beautiful 


Thus the day passed, and the evening 


Is dead, is dead ! " 


Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; 


And died away 


But it brought no food nor shelter. 


Through the dreary night, 


Brought no straw nor stall, for him. 


In accents of despair. 


Patiently, and still expectant. 


Balder the Beautiful, 


Looked he through the wooden bars. 


God of the summer sun. 


Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, 


Fairest of all the Gods ! 


Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 


Light from his forehead beamed. 




Runes were upon his tongue. 


Till at length the bell at midnight 


As on the warrior's sword. 


Sounded from its dark abode, 




And, from out a neighboring farm- 


All things in earth and air 


yard. 


Bound were by magic spell 


Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 


Never to do him harm ; 




Even the plants and stones ; 


Then, with nostrils wide distended, 


All save the mistletoe. 


Breaking from his iron chain. 


The sacred mistletoe ! 


And unfolding far his pinions, 




To those stars he soared again. 


Hoeder, the blind old God, 




Whose feet are shod with silence. 


On the morrow, when the village 


Pierced through that gentle breast 


Woke to all its toil and care, 


With his sharp spear, by fraud 


Lo ! the strange steed had departed. 


Made of the mistletoe. 


And they knew not when nor where. 


The accursed mistletoe ! 


But they found, upon the greensward 


They laid him in his ship, 


Where his struggling hoofs had trod, 


With horse and harness, 


Pure and bright, a fountain flowing. 


As on a funeral pyre. 


From the hoof-marks in the sod. 


Odin placed 




A ring upon his finger, 


From that hour, the fount unfailing 


And whispered in his ear. 


Gladdens the whole region round. 




Strengthening all who drink its waters. 


They launched the burning ship ! 


While it soothes them with its sound. 


It floated far away 



THE SINGERS. 



Over the misty sea, 


Feed upon morning dew, 


Till like the sun it seemed, 


Sing the new Song of Love ! 


Sinking beneath the waves. 




Balder returned no more ! 


The law of force is dead ! 




The law of love prevails ! 


So perish the old Gods ! 


Thor, the thuiiderer, 


But out of the sea of Time 


Shall rule the earth no more, 


Rises a new land of song, 


No more, with threats, 


Fairer than the old. 


Challenge the meek Christ 


Over its meadows green 




Walk the young bards and sing. 


Sing no more. 




O ye bards of the North, 


Build it again. 


Of Vikings and of Jarls 1 


O ye bards. 


Of the days of eld 


Fairer than before ! 


Preserve the freedom only. 


Ye fathers of the new race, 


Not the deeds of blood ! 




'^%;^^ 

^-z,^- 



THE SINGERS. 

God sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth. 
That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 






"■^\ 







The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 

Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 

Through groves he wandered, and by streams. 

Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face. 
Stood singing in the market-place. 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
"While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, " I see 
No best in kind, but in degree ; 



HYMN. 



203 



I gave a various gift to each, 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 

"These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 







HYMN 

FOR MY brother's ORDINATION. 

Christ to the young man said : " Yet 
one thing more ; 
If thou wouldst perfect be, 
Sell all thou hast and give it to the 
poor. 
And come and follow me ! " 

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 

And his invisible hands to-day have been 
Laid on a young man's head. 



And evermore beside him on his way 
The unseen Christ shall move, 

That he may lean ujion his arm and say, 
" Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ? " 

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be. 
To make the scene more fair ; 

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 
Of pain and midnight prayer. 

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's 
breast. 

And thus to journey on ! 



204 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



SONNET 

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM 
SHAKESPEARE. 

O PRECIOUS evenings ! all too swiftly 

sped ! 
Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 
Of all the best thoughts of the greatest 

sages, 
And giving tongues unto the silent 

dead ! 
How our hearts glowed and trembled as 

she read, 
Interpreting by tones the wondrous 

pages 
Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 
Anticipating all that shall be said ! 
O happy Reader ! having for thy text 
The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves 

have caught 
The rarest essence of all human 

thousrht ! 



O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now re- 
joice 
To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



SUSPIRIA. 

Take them, O Death ! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, O Grave ! and let them 
lie 

Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 
As garments by the soul laid by, 

And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CAST^L-CUILLE. 



FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN. 

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy aright ; 
Let me attempt it with an English quill ; 
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. 



At the foot of the mountain height 
Where is perched Cast^l-Cuille, 
When the apple, the plum, and the 
almond tree 
In the plain below were growing 

white, 
This is the song one might perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's 
Eve : 

"The roads should blossom, the roads 

should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
Seemed from the clouds descending ; 



When lo ! a merry company 
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, 

Each one with her attendant swain. 
Came to the cliff, all singing the same 

strain ; 
Resembling there, so near unto the 

sky, 
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has 

sent 
For their delight and our encourage- 
ment. 
Together blending. 
And soon descending 
The narrow sweep 
Of the hillside steep, 
They wind aslant 
Towards Saint Amant, 
Through leafy alleys 
Of verdurous valleys 
With merry sallies 
Singing their chant : 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



205 



" The roads should blossom, the roads 

should bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

gay. 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden. 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue ; without one cloud of 
gloom, 
The sun of March was shining brightly. 
And to the air the freshening wind gave 
lightly 
Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges 

blossom, 
A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 

To sounds of joyous melodies. 
That touch with tenderness the trembling 
bosom, 
A band of maidens 
Gayly frolicking, 
A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With fingers pressing. 

Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they dance, 
They retreat and advance. 

Trying whose laugh shall be loud- 
est and merriest ; 
While the bride, with roguish eyes. 
Sporting with them, now escapes and 
cries : 
" Those who catch me 
Married verily 
This year shall be ! " 

And all pursue with eager haste. 
And all attain what they pursue, 
And touch her pretty apron fresh and 
new. 
And the linen kirtle round her waist. 

Meanwhile, whence comes it that 

among 
These youthful maidens fresh and 

fair. 
So joyous, with such laughing air. 



Baptiste stands sighing, with silent 

tongue .'* 
And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 
That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 
O no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 
Never bore so lofty a bjow ! 
What lovers ! they give not a single 

caress ! 
To see them so careless and cold to-day, 
These are grand people, one would 
say. 
What ails Baptiste "i what grief doth him 
oppress .' 

It is, that, half-way up the hill, 
In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 
And you must know, one year ago, 
That Margaret, the young and ten- 
der. 
Was the village pride and splendor, 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
For them the altar was prepared ; 
But, alas ! the summer's blight. 
The dread disease that none can 

stay, 
The pestilence that walks by night. 
Took the young bride's sight away. 

All at the father's stern command was 

changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not their love 

estranged. 
Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled ; 
Returned but three short days ago. 
The golden chain they round him 

throw, 
He is enticed, and onward led 
To marry Angela, and yet 
Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a maiden cried, 
" Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 
Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And by 
a fountain's side 
A woman, bent and gray with years. 
Under the mulberry-trees appears. 
And all towards her run, as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 



2o6 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 
She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 
She promises one a village swain. 
Another a happy wedding-day. 
And the bride a lovely boy straight- 
way. 
All comes to pass as she avers ; 
She never deceives, she never errs. 

But for this once the village seer 

Wears a countenance severe. 
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and 
white 

Her two eyes flash like cannons bright 

Aimed at the bridegroom in waist- 
coat blue. 

Who, like a statue, stands in view ; 

Changing color, as well he might, 

When the beldame wrinkled and 
gray 

Takes the young bride by the hand, 

And, with the tip of her reedy wand 

Making the sign of the cross, doth 
say : — 

" Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 

Lest, when thou weddest this false 
bridegroom, 

Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 
And she was silent ; and the maidens fair 
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 
But on a little streamlet silver-clear, 

What are two drops of turbid rain ? 

Saddened a moment, the bridal train 

Resumed the dance and song again ; 
The bridegroom only was pale with 
fear ; — 

And down green alleys 

Of verdurous valleys, 

With merry sallies. 

They sang the refrain : — 

" The roads should blossom, the roads 

should bloom. 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands 

gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 



And by suffering worn and weary. 
But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 



Thus lamented Margaret, 

In her cottage lone and dreary : — 

" He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 
Yet Jane has named him not these three 

days past ; 
Arrived ! yet keeps aloof so far ! 
And knows that of my night he is the 

star ! 
Knows that long months I wait alone, 

benighted, 
And count the moments since he went 

away ! 
Come ! keep the promise of that happier 

day. 
That I may keep the faith to thee I 

plighted ! 
What joy have I without thee ? what 

delight .? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery ; 
Day for the others ever, but for me 
Forever night ! forever night ! 
When he is gone 't is dark ! my soul is 

sad ! 
I suffer ! O my God ! come, make me 

glad. 
When he is near, no thoughts of day 

intrude ; 
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has 

blue eyes ! 
Within them shines for me a heaven of 

love, 
A heaven all happiness, like that above, 
No more of grief! no more of las- 
situde ! 
Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all 

distresses, 
When seated by my side my hand he 

presses ; 
But when alone, remember all ! 
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I 

call! 
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground, 

I need some bough to twine around ! 
In pity come ! be to my suffering 

kind! 
True love, they say, in grief doth more 

abound ! 
What then — when one is blind ? 

" Who knows ? perhaps I am forsaken ! 
Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my 
grave ! 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE. 



207 



God ! what thoughts within me 

waken ! 
Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 
He will return ! I need not fear ! 
He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 
He could not come at his own will ; 
Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 
Perhaps his heart, in this disguise, 
Prepares for me some sweet sur- 
prise ! 
But some one comes ! Though blind, 

my heart can see ! 
And that deceives me not ! 't is he ! 't is 
he!" 

And the door ajar is set. 
And poor, confiding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sight- 
less eyes ; 
'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus 
cries : — 
" Angela the bride has passed ! 

1 saw the wedding guests go by ; 
Tell me, my sister, why were we not 

asked ? 
For all are there but you and I ! " 

" Angela married ! and not send 

To tell her secret unto me ! 

O, speak ! who may the bridegroom 

be?" 
" My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy 

friend ! " 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing 

said ; 
A milky whiteness spreads upon her 
cheeks ; 
An icy hand, as heavy as lead. 
Descending, as her brother speaks, 
Upon her heart, that has ceased to 

beat. 
Suspends awhile its life and heat. 
She stands beside the boy, now sore dis- 
tressed, 
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 

At length, the bridal song again 
Brings her back to her sorrow and 
pain. 

" Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing ! 
Sister, dost thou hear them singing ? 



How merrily they laugh and jest ! 
Would we were bidden with the rest I 
I would don my hose of homespun 

gray, 
And my doublet of linen striped 

and gay ; 
Perhaps they will come ; for they do 

not wed 
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is 

said ! " 
" I know it ! " answered Margaret ; 
Whom the vision, with aspect black as 

jet, 
Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 
" Paul, be not sad ! 'T is a holiday ; 
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay ; 
But leave me now for a while alone." 
Away, with a hop and a jump, went 

Paul, 
And, as he whistled along the hall, 
Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 

I am faint, and weary, and out of 
breath ! 

But thou art cold, — art chill as 
death ; 

My little friend ! what ails thee, 
sweet ! " 
" Nothing ! I heard them singing home 
the bride ; 

And, as I listened to the song, 

I thought my turn would come ere- 
long. 

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 

Thy cards forsooth can never lie. 

To me such joy they prophesy, 

Thy skill shall be vaunted far and 
wide 

When they behold him at my side. 

And poor Baptiste, what sayest 
thou ? 
It must seem long to him ; — methinks I 
see him now ! " 

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth 
press ; 

" Thy love I cannot all approve ; 
We must not trust too much to happi- 
ness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love 
him less ! " 
"The more I pray, the more 1 love ! 



2o8 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 

It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and 
cold; 
But to deceive the beldame old 
She takes a sweet, contented air ; 
Speak of foul weather or of fair, 
At every word the maiden smiles ! 
Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 

So that, departing at the evening's close, 
She says, " She may be saved ! she 
nothing knows ! " 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no 

prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart. 

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art ! 



Now rings the bell, nine times rever- 
berating. 
And the white daybreak, stealing up 

the sky. 
Sees in two cottages two maidens 
waiting. 
How differently ! 
Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed. 
The one puts on her cross and crown, 
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast. 
And flaunting, fluttering up and down. 
Looks at herself and cannot rest. 
The other, blind, within her little 

room. 
Has neither crown nor flower's per- 
fume ; 
But in their stead for something gropes 
apart. 
That in a drawer's recess doth lie, 
And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet 
dye. 
Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 

'Mid kisses ringing, 

And joyous singing. 
Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 

The other, with cold drops upon her brow. 
Joins her two hands, and kneels upon 
the floor, 



And whispers, as her brother opes the 
door, 
" O God ! forgive me now I " 

And then the orphan, young and 
blind, 

Conducted by her brother's hand. 

Towards the church, through paths 
unscanned. 

With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 
Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale, 

Round her at times exhale. 
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 

But brumal vapors gray. 

Near that castle, fair to see. 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every 

part. 
Marvels of nature and of art. 

And proud of its name of high 

degree, 
A little chapel, almost bare 
At the base of the rock, is builded 

there ; 
All glorious that it lifts aloof, 
Above each jealous cottage roof. 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales. 
And its blackened steeple high in air 
Round which the osprey screams and 

sails. 

" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus Margaret said. "Where are we ? 

we ascend ! " 
" Yes ; seest thou not our journey's 

end.' 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry 

cry ? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, 

we know ! 
Dost thou remember when our father said. 
The night we watched beside his bed, 
' O daughter, I am weak and low ; 
Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am dying ! ' 
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying .' 
Then on the roof the osprey screamed 

aloud ; 
And here they brought our father in his 

shroud. 
There is his grave ; there stands the cross 

we set ; 
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Mar- 
garet ? 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 209 


Come in ! The bride will be here 


At the holy table stands the priest ; 


soon : 


The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste 


Thou tremblest ! O my God ! thou art 


receives it ; 


going to swoon ! " 


Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, 


She could no more, — the blind girl, 


He must pronounce one word at 


weak and weary ! 


least ! 


A voice seemed crying from that grave 


'T is spoken ; and sudden at the grooms- 


so dreary, 


man's side 


" What wouldst thou do, my daughter? " 


" 'T is he ! " a well-known voice has 


— and she started ; 


cried. 


And quick recoiled, aghast, faint- 


And while the wedding guests all hold 


hearted ; 


their breath. 


But Paul, impatient, urges evermore 


Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, 


Her steps towards the open door ; 


see ! 


And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy 


" Baptiste," she said, " since thou hast 


maid 


wished my death. 


Crushes the laurel near the house im- 


As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 


mortal. 


And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 


And with her head, as Paul talks on 


Doubtless her guardian angel near at- 


again. 


tended, 


Touches the crown of iiligrane 


For anguish did its work so well. 


Suspended from the low-arched por- 


That, ere the fatal stroke descended. 


tal. 


Lifeless she fell ! 


No more restrained, no more afraid. 




She walks, as for a feast arrayed, 


At eve, instead of bridal verse, 


And in the ancient chapel's sombre night 


The De Profundis filled the air ; 


They both are lost to sight. 


Decked with flowers a simple hearse 




To the churchyard forth they bear ; 


At length the bell, 


Village girls in robes of snow 


With booming sound, 


Follow, weeping as they go ; 


Sends forth, resounding round, 


Nowhere was a smile that day, 


Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down 


No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : — 


the dell. 




It is broad day, with sunshine and with 


"The road should mourn and be veiled 


rain ; 


in gloom. 


And yet the guests delay not long. 


So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 


For soon arrives the bridal train. 


Should mourn and should weep, ah, well- 


And with it brings the village throng. 


away ! 




So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 


In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay. 




For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 




Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning. 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 


Thinks only of the beldame's words of 




warning. 


FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI 




BARoZAI. 


And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 




To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 


I HEAR along our street 


Feels her heart swell to hear all round 


Pass the minstrel throngs ; 


her whisper. 


Hark ! they play so sweet, 


" How beautiful ! how beautiful she is ! " 


On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 




Let us by the fire 


But she must calm that giddy head, 


Ever higher 


For already the Mass is said ; 
14 


Sing them till the night expire ! 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



In December ring 


Nuns in frigid cells 


Every day the chimes ; 


At this holy tide. 


Loud the gleemen sing 


For want of something else, 


In the streets their merry rliymes. 


Christmas songs at times have tried. 


Let us by the fire 


Let us by the fire 


Ever higher 


Ever higher 


Sing them till the night expire. 


Sing them till the night expire ! 


Shepherds at the grange, 


Washerwomen old, 


Where the Babe was born, 


To the sound they beat, 


Sang, with many a change. 


Sing by rivers cold. 


Christmas carols until morn. 


With uncovered heads and feet 


Let us by the fire 


Let us by the fire 


Ever higher 


Ever higher 


Sing them till the night expire ! 


Sing them till the night expire. 


These good people sang 


Who by the fireside stands 


Songs devout and sweet ; 


Stamps his feet and sings ; 


While the rafters rang, 


But he who blows his hands 


There they stood with fieezing feet. 


Not so gay a carol brings. 


Let us by the fire 


Let us by the fire 


Ever higher 


Ever higher 


Sing them till the night expire. 


Sing them till the night expire ! 




-— =-'m-r.^.:^^ik.= — X 




THE 
GOLDEN LEGEND. 



PROLOGUE. 

The Spire of Strasburg Cathedral. Night 
and storm. LuciFER, with the Fo^vers 
of the Air, trying to tear doxvn the 
Cross. 

Liicifer. Hasten ! liasten ! 
O ye spirits ! 

From its station drag the ponderous 
Cross of iron, that to mock us 
Is uplifted high in air ! 



Voices. O, we cannot ! 
For around it 

All the Saints and Guardian Angel? 
Throng in legions to protect it ; 
They defeat us everywhere ! 

The Bells. 

Laudo Deuui vcrum ! 
Plebem voco ! 
Congrego clerum ! 

Lucifer. Lower ! lower ! 
Hover downward I 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and 
Clashing, clanging, to the pavement 
Hurl them from their windy tower ! 

Voices. All thy thunders 
Here are harmless ! 
For these bells have been anointed, 
And baptized with holy water ! 
They defy our utmost power. 

The Bells. 

Defunctos ploro ! 
Pestem fugo ! 
Festa decoro ! 

Lucifer. Shake the casements ! 
Break the painted 

Panes, that flame with gold and crim- 
son ; 
Scatter them like leaves of Autumn, 
Swept away before the blast ! 

Voices. O, we cannot ! 
The Archangel 

Michael flames from every window. 
With the sword of fire that drove us 
Headlong, out of heaven, aghast ! 

The Bells. 

Funera plango ! 
Fulgura frango ! 
Sabbata pango ! 

Lucifer. Aim your lightnings 
At the oaken, 

Massive, iron-studded portals ! 
Sack the house of God, and scatter 
Wide the ashes of the dead ! 

Voices. O, we cannot ! 
The Apostles 

And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles. 
Stand as warders at the entrance, 
Stand as sentinels o'erhead ! 

The Bells. 

Excito lentos ! 
Dissipo ventos ! 
Paco cruentos ! 

Lucifer. Baffled ! baffled ! 
Inefficient, 

Craven spirits ! leave this labor 
Unto Time, the Great Destroyer ! 
Come away, ere night is gone ! 

Voices. Onward ! onward ! 
With the night-wind. 
Over field and farm and forest. 



Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, 
Blighting all we breathe upon ! 

( They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian 
Chant.) 

Choir. 

Nocte surgentes 
Vigilemus omnes ! 



The castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. A 
chamber in a tower. Prince Henry, 
sitting alone, ill and restless. Mid- 
night. 

Prince Henry. I cannot sleep ! my 
fervid brain 
Calls up the vanished Past again. 
And throws its misty splendors deep 
Into the pallid realms of sleep ! 
A breath from that far-distant shore 
Comes freshening ever more and more, 
And wafts o'er intervening seas 
Sweet odors from the Hesperides ! 
A wind, that through the corridor 
Just stirs the curtain, and no more, 
And, touching the asolian strings. 
Faints with the burden that it brings ! 
Come back ! ye friendships long de- 
parted ! 
That like o'erflowing streamlets started. 
And now are dwindled, one by one. 
To stony channels in the sun ! 
Come back ! ye friends, whose lives are 

ended. 
Come back, with all that light attended. 
Which seemed to darken and decay 
When ye arose and went away ! 

They come, the shapes of joy and woe, 

The airy crowds of long ago. 

The dreams and fancies known of yore. 

That have been, and shall be no more. 

They change the cloisters of the night 

Into a garden of delight ; 

They make the dark and dreary hours 

Open and blossom into flowers ! 

I would not sleep ! I love to be 

Again in their fair company ; 

But ere my lips can bid them stay, 

They pass and vanish quite away ! 

Alas ! our memories may retrace 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



213 



Each circumstance of time and place, 
Season and scene come back again, 
And outward things unchanged remain ; 
The rest we cannot reinstate ; 
Ourselves we cannot re-create, 
Nor set our souls to the same key 
Of the remembered harmony ! 

Rest ! rest ! O, give me rest and peace ! 
The thought of life that ne'er shall cease 



Prince Henry {starting). Who is it 
speaks ? 
Who and what are you ? 

I^ncifer. One who seeks 

A moment's audience with the Prince. 

Prince Henry. When came you in ? 

Lucifer. A moment since. 

I found your study door unlocked, 
And thought you answered when I 
knocked. 




Has something in it like despair, 
A weight I am too weak to bear ! 
Sweeter to this afflicted breast 
The thought of never-ending rest ! 
Sweeter the undisturbed and deep 
Tranquillity of endless sleep ! 

{^A flash of lightning, out of which LuciFF.R 
appears, in the garb of a travelling Phy- 
sician.) 

Lucifer. All hail. Prince Henry I 



Prince Henry. I did not hear you. 

Lucifer. You heard the thunder ; 

It was loud enough to waken the dead. 
And it is not a matter of special wonder 
That, when God is walking overhead. 
You should not hear my feeble tread. 

Prince Henry. What may your wish 
or purpose be ? 

LMcifcr. Nothing or everything, as it 
pleases 
Vour Highness. N'imi behold in me 



214 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Only a travelling Physician ; 
One of the few who have a mission 
To cure incurable diseases, 
Or those that are called so. 

Prince Henry. Can you bring 

The dead to life ? 

Lucifer. Yes ; very nearly. 

And, what is a wiser and better thing, 
Can keep the living from ever needing 
Such an unnatural, strange proceeding, 
By showing conclusively and clearly 
That death is a stupid blunder merely, 



Ah, how can I ever hope to requite 
This honor from one so erudite ? 

Ltccifer. The honor is mine, or will 
be when 
I have cured your disease. 

Prince Henry. But not till then. 

Lucifer. "What is your illness ? 

Pi'ince Henry. It has no name. 

A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame. 
As in a kiln, burns in my veins, 
Sending up vapors to the head ; 
My heart has become a dull lagoon, 




And not a necessity of our lives. 

My being here is accidental ; 

The storm, that against your casement 

drives, 
In the little village below waylaid me. 
And there I heard, with a secret delight. 
Of your maladies physical and mental, 
Which neither astonished nor dismayed 

me. 
And I hastened hither, though late in the 

night 
To proffer my aid ! 

Prince Heniy {ironically). For this 

you came ! 



Which a kind of leprosy drinks and 

drains ; 
I am accounted as one who is dead. 
And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon. 
Lucifer. And has Gordonius the Di- 
vine, 
In his famous Lily of Medicine, — 
I see the book lies open before you, — 
No remedy potent enough to restore 
you .'' 
Prince Henry. None whatever ! 
Lucifer. The dead are dead. 

And their oracles dumb, when questioned 
Of the new diseases that human life 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 215 


Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. 


Among the living and the dead, 


Consult the dead upon things that were, 


Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled ; 


But the living only on things that are. 


So, starting from its fountain-head 


Have you done this, by the appliance 


Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, 


And aid of doctors ? 


From the dead demigods of eld, 


Prince Henry. Ay, whole schools 


Through long, unbroken lines of kings 


Of doctors, with their learned rules ; 


Its course the sacred art has held, 


But the case is quite beyond their sci- 


Unchecked, unchanged by man's devices. 


ence. 


This art the Arabian Geber taught, 


Even the doctors of Salern 


And in alembics, finely wrought. 


Send me back word they can discern 


Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered 


No cure for a malady like this, 


The secret that so long had hovered 


Save one which in its nature is 


Upon the misty verge of Truth, 


Impossible, and cannot be ! 


The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, 


Lucifer. That sounds oracular ! 


Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech ! 


Prince Henry. Unendurable ! 


Like him, this wondrous lore I teach ! 


Lucifer. What is their remedy ? 


Prince Henry. What ! an adept .' 


Prince Henry. You shall see ; 


Lucifer. Nor less, nor more ! 


Writ in this scroll is the mystery. 


Prince Henry. I am a reader of your 


Lucifer (reading). " Not to be cured. 


books. 


yet not incurable ! 


A lover of that mystic lore ! 


The only remedy that remains 


With such a piercing glance it looks 


Is the blood that flows from a maiden's 


Into great Nature's open eye. 


veins, 


And sees within it trembling lie 


Who of her own free will shall die. 


The portrait of the Deity ! 


And give her life as the price of yours ! " 


And yet, alas ! with all my pains. 


That is the strangest of all cures, 


The secret and the mystery 


And one, I think, you will never try : 


Have baffled and eluded me. 


The prescription you may well put by, 


Unseen the grand result remains ! 


As something impossible to find 


Lucifer [shmving a flask). Behold it 


Before the world itself shall end ! 


here ! this little flask 


And yet who knows ? One cannot say 


Contains the wonderful quintessence. 


That into some maiden's brain that kind 


The perfect flower and efllorescence. 


Of madness will not find its way. 


Of all the knowledge man can ask ! 


Meanwhile permit me to recommend. 


Hold it up thus against the light ! 


As the matter admits of no delay. 


Prince Henry. How limpid, pure, and 


My wonderful Catholicon, 


crj'stalline. 


Of veiy subtile and magical powers ! 


How quick, and tremulous, and bright 


Priiice Henry. Purge with your nos- 


The little wavelets dance and shine. 


trums and drugs infernal 


As were it the Water of Life in sooth ! 


The spouts and gargoyles of these towers, 


Lucifer. It is ! It assuages every 


Not me. My faith is utterly gone 


pain, 


In every power but the Power Supernal ! 


Cures all disease, and gives again 


Pray tell me, of what school are you ? 


To age the swift delights of youth. 


Lucifer. Both of the Old and of the 


Inhale its fragrance. 


New ! 


Prince Henry. It is sweet. 


The school of Hermes Trismegistus, 


A thousand different odors meet 


Who uttered his oracles sublime 


And mingle in its rare perfume, 


Before the Olympiads, in the dew 


Such as the winds of summer waft 


Of the early dusk and dawn of Time, 


At open windows through a room ! 


The reign of dateless old Hephaestus ! 


Lucifer. Will you not taste it ? 


-Vs northward, from its Nubian springs. 


Prince Henry. Will one draught 


The Nile, forever new and old, 


suffice ? 



2l6 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 




Lucifer. If not, you can drink more. 


Is taken from me, and my weary breast 


Prince Henry. Into this crystal gob- 


At length finds rest. 




let pour 


The Angel. It is but the rest of the 




So much as safely I may drink. 


fire, from which the air has been 




Lucifer {pouring). Let not the quantity 


taken ! 




alarm you ; 


It is but the rest of the sand, when the 




You may drink all ; it will not harm 


hour-glass is not shaken ! 




you. 


It is but the rest of the tide between the 




Prince Henry. I am as one who on 


ebb and the flow ! 




the brink 


It is but the rest of the wind between the 




Of a dark river stands and sees 


flaws that blow ! 




The waters flow, the landscape dim 


With fiendish laughter. 




Around him waver, wheel, and swim, 


Hereafter, 




And, ere he plunges, stops to think 


This false physician 




Into what whirlpools he may sink ; 


Will mock thee in thy perdition. 




One moment pauses, and no more. 


Prince Henry. Speak ! speak ! 




Then madly plunges from the shore ! 


Who says that I am ill } 




Headlong into the mysteries 


I am not ill ! I am not weak ! 




Of life and death I boldly leap. 


The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o'er ! 




Nor fear the fateful current's sweep. 


I feel the chill of death no more ! 




Nor what in ambush lurks below ! 


At length. 




For death is better than disease ! 


I stand renewed in all my strength ! 




{All Angel ^uith an csolian harp koz'e7-s 
in the air.) 


Beneath me I can feel 

The great earth stagger and reel, 

As if the feet of a descending God 




Angel. Woe ! woe ! eternal woe ! 


Upon its surface trod, 




Not only the whispered prayer 


And like a pebble it rolled beneath his 




Of love, 


heel! 




But the imprecations of hate. 


This, brave physician ! this 




Reverberate 


Is thy great Palingenesis ! 




For ever and ever through the air 

Above ! 


(Dri7tks again.) 




This fearful curse 


The Angel. Touch the goblet no 




Shakes the great universe ! 


move ! 




Lucifer {disappearing). Drink ! drink ! 


It will make thy heart sore 




And thy soul shall sink 


To its very core ! 




Down into the dark abyss, 


Its perfume is the breath 




Into the infinite abyss, 


Of the Angel of Death, 




From which no plummet nor rope 


And the light that within it lies 




Ever drew up the silver sand of hope ! 


Is the flash of his evil eyes. 




Prince Henry {drinkitig). It is like a 


Beware ! O, beware ! 




draught of fire ! 


For sickness, sorrow, and care 




Through every vein 


All are there ! 




I feel again 


Prince Henry {sinking dack.) O thou 




The fever of youth, the soft desire ; 


voice within my breast ! 




A rapture that is almost pain 


Why entreat me, why upbraid me. 




Throbs in my heart and fills my brain ! 


When the steadfast tongues of truth 




O joy ! O joy ! I feel 


And the flattering hopes of youth 




The band of steel 


Have all deceived me and betrayed me ? 




That so long and heavily has pressed 


Give me, give me rest, O rest ! 




Upon my breast 


Golden visions wave and hover. 




Uplifted, and the malediction 


Golden vapors, waters streaming, 




Of my affliction 


Landscapes moving, changing, gleaming ! 





I am like a happy lover 
Who illumines life with dreaming I 
Brave physician ! Rare physician I 
Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission ! 

{His head falls on his book.) 

The Atigel (receding). Alas ! alas ! 
Like a vapor the golden vision 
Shall fade and pass, 
And thou wilt find in tliy heart again 
Only the blight of pain, 
And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition ! 



And I, the poor old seneschal, 
Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. 
Alas ! the merry guests no more 
Crowd through the hospitable door ; 
No eyes with youth and passion shine. 
No cheeks grow redder than the wine 
No song, no laugh, no jovial din 
Of drinking wassail to the pin ; 
But all is silent, sad, and drear, 
And now the only sounds I hear 
Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls, 
And horses stamping in their stalls ! 



^ 



I \ \ 



^ 




Court-yard of the Castle. WuYi'E.KV stand- 
ing by the gateiuay. 

Hubert. How sad the grand old castle 

looks ! 
O'erhead, the unmolested rooks 
Upon the turret's windy top 
Sit, talking of the farmer's crop ; 
Here in the court-yard springs the 

grass. 
So few are now the feet that pass ; 
The stately peacocks, bolder grown, 
Come hopping down the steps of stone. 
As if the castle were their own ; 



{A horn sounds.) 

What ho ! that merr)% sudden blast 
Reminds me of the days long past ! 
And, as of old resounding, grate 
The heavy hinges of the gate. 
And, clattering loud, with iron clank, 
Down goes the sounding bridge of plank. 
As if it were in haste to greet 
The pressure of a traveller's feet ! 

{Enter Walter the Minnesinger.) 

Walter. How now, my friend ! This 
looks quite lonely I 



2l8 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 




No banner flying from the walls, 
No pages and no seneschals, 
No warders, and one porter only ! 
Is it you, Hubert ? 

Hubert. Ah ! Master Walter ! 

Walter. Alas ! how forms and faces alter 



I did not know you. You look older ! 
Your hair has grown much grayer and 

thinner, 
And you stoop a little in the shoulder ! 
Hubert. Alack ! I am a poor old sin- 
ner. 
And, like these towers, begin to moulder ; 
And you have been absent many a year ! 
Walter. How is the Prince ? 
Hubert. He is not here ; 

He has been ill : and now has fled. 

Walter. Speak it out frankly : say 
he 's dead ! 
Is it not so ? 



Hubert. No ; if you please, 

A strange, mysterious disease 
Fell on him with a sudden blight. 
Whole hours together he would stand 
Upon the terrace, in a dream. 
Resting his head upon his hand. 
Best pleased when he was most alone. 
Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone. 
Looking down into a stream. 
In the Round Tower, night after night, 
He sat, and bleared his eyes with 

books ; 
Until one morning we found him there 
Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 219 


He had fallen from his chair.. 


Strengthened our hearts ; or, heard at 


We hardly recognized his sweet looks ! 


night. 


Walter. Poor Prince ! 


Made all our slumbers soft and light. 


Hubert. I think he might have 


Where is he .' 


mended ; 


Hubert. In the Odenwald. 


And he did mend ; but very soon 


Some of his tenants, unappalled 


The priests came flocking in, like rooks, 


By fear of death, or priestly word, — 


With all Iheir crosiers and their crooks, 


A holy family, that make 


And so at last the matter ended. 


Each meal a Supper of the Lord, — 


Walter. How did it end .' 


Have him beneath their watch and ward, 


Hubert. Why, in Saint Rochiis 


For love of him, and Jesus' sake I 


They made him stand, and wait his 


Pray you come in. For why should I 


doom ; 


With out-door hospitality 


And, as if he were condemned to the 


My prince's friend thus entertain ? 


tomb. 


Walter. I would a moment here re- 


Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. 


main. 


First, the Mass for the Dead they 


But you, good Hubert, go before, 


chanted. 


Fill me a goblet of .May-drink, 


Then three times laid upon his head 


As aromatic as the May 


A shovelful of churchyard clay. 


From which it steals the breath away, 


Saying to him, as he stood undaunted. 


And which he loved so well of yore ; 


" This is a sign that thou art dead, 


It is of him that I would think. 


So in thy heart be penitent ! " 


You shall attend me, when I call. 


And forth from the chapel door he went 


In the ancestral banquet-hall. 


Into disgrace and banishment. 


Unseen companions, guests of air, 


Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray. 


You cannot wait on, will be there ; 


And bearing a wallet, and a bell. 


They taste not food, they drink not wine, 


Whose sound should be a perpetual knell 


But their soft eyes look into mine, 


To keep all travellers away. 


And their lips speak to me, and all 


Walter. O, horrible fate ! Outcast, 


The vast and shadowy banquet-hall 


rejected. 


Is full of looks and words divine ! 


As one with pestilence infected ! 

Hubert. Then was the family tomb 


( Leaning over the parapet. ) 


unsealed, 


The day is done ; and slowly from the 


And broken helmet, sword, and shield. 


scene 


Buried together in common wreck. 


The stooping sun upgathers his spent 


As is the custom, when the last 


shafts. 


Of any princely house has passed, 


And puts them back into his golden 


And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, 


quiver ! 


A herald shouted down the stair 


Below me in the valley, deep and green 


The words of warning and despair, — 


As goblets arc, from which in thirsty 


" Hoheneck ! O Hoheneck ! " 


draughts 


Walter: Still in my soul that cry goes 


We drink its wine, the swift and mantling 


on, — 


river 


Forever gone ! forever gone ! 


Flows on triumphant through these lovely 


Ah, what a cruel sense of loss. 


regions. 


Like a black shadow, would fall across 


Etched with the shadows of its sombre 


The hearts of all, if he should die ! 


margent. 


His gracious presence upon earth 


And soft, reflected clouds of gold and 


Was as a fire upon a hearth ; 


argent ! 


\s pleasant songs, at morning sung, 


Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and still. 


The words that dropped from his sweet 


As when the vanguard of the Roman 


tongue 


legions 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



First saw it from the top of yonder hill ! 
How beautiful it is ! Fresh fields of wheat, 
Vineyard, and town, and tower with flut- 
tering flag. 
The consecrated chapel on the crag, 
And the white hamlet gathered round its 

base, 
Like Mary sitting at her Saviour's feet. 



Prince Henry {reading). One morning, 
all alone. 
Out of his convent of gray stone, 
Into the forest older, darker, grayer, 
His lips moving as if in prayer, 
His head sunken upon his breast 
As in a dream of rest, 
Walked the Monk Felix. All about 







And lookmg up at his belo\ ed face ! 

O friend ! O best of friends ! Thy ab- 
sence more 

Than the impending night darkens the 
landscape o'er ! 



II. 



A farm in the Odenwald. A garden ; 
morning ; Prince Henky seated, u>ith 
a book. Elsie, at a distance, gathering 
Jloivers. 



1 he broad, sweet sunshine lay without. 

Filling the summer air ; 

And within the woodlands as he trod, 

The dusk was like the Truce of God 

With worldly woe and care ; 

Under him lay the golden moss ; 

And above him the boughs of hoary trees 

Waved, and made the sign of the cross, 

And whispered their Benedicites ; 

And from the ground 

Rose an odor sweet and fragrant 

Of the wild-flowers and the vacrrant 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 




Vines that wandered, 

Seeking the sunshine, round and round. 

These he heeded not, but pondered 

On the volume in his hand, 

A volume of Saint Augustine, 

Wherein he read of the unseen 

Splendors of God's great town 

In the unknown land, 

And, with his eyes cast down 

In humility, he said : 

" I believe, O God, 

What herein I have read, 

But, alas ! I do not understand ! " 

And lo ! he heard 
The sudden singing of a bird, 
A snow-white bird, that from a cloud 
Dropped down, 

And among the branches brown 
Sat singing 

So sweet, and clear, and loud, 
It seemed a thousand harp-strings ring- 
ing. 
And the Monk Feli.x closed his book 
And long, long. 
With rapturous look. 



He listened to the song, 
And hardly breathed or stirred. 
Until he saw, as in a vision. 
The land Elysian, 
And in the heavenly city heard 
Angelic feet 

Fall on the golden flagging of the street 
And he would fain 
Have caught the wondrous bird, 
But strove in vain ; 
For it flew away, away. 
Far over hill and dell. 
And instead of its sweet singing 
He heard the convent bell 
Suddenly in the silence ringing 
For the service of noonday. 
And he retraced 

His pathway homeward sadly and in 
haste. 

In the convent there was a change ! 
He looked for each well-known face, 
But the faces were new and strange ; 
New figures sat in the oaken stalls, 
New voices chanted in the choir ; 
Yet the place was the same place. 
The same dusky walls 



222 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Of cold, gray stone, 


Wherein were written down 


The same cloisters and belfry and spire. 


The names of all who had died 




In the convent, since it was edified. 


A stranger and alone 


And there they found, 


Among that brotherhood 


Just as the old monk said, 


The Monk Felix stood. 


That on a certain day and date. 


" Forty years," said a Friar, 


One hundred years before, 


" Have I been Prior 


Had gone forth from the convent gate 


Of this convent in the wood. 


The Monk Felix, and never more 


But for that space 


Had entered that sacred door. 


Never have I beheld thy face ! " 


He had been counted among the dead ! 




And they knew, at last. 


The heart of the Monk Felix fell : 


That, such had been the power 


And he answered, with submissive tone, 


Of that celestial and immortal song, 


" This morning, after the hour of Prime, 


A hundred years had passed. 


I left my cell. 


And had not seemed so long 


And wandered forth alone, 


As a single hour ! 


Listening all the time 




To the melodious singing 


(Elsie comes in with flowers.) 


Of a beautiful white bird, 


Elsie. Plere are flowers for you, 


Until I heard 


But they are not all for you. 


The bells of the convent ringing 


Some of them are for the Virgin 


Noon from their noisy towers. 


And for Saint Cecilia. 


It was as if I dreamed ; 


Prince Henry. As thou standest there, 


For what to me had seemed 


Thou seemest to me like the angel 


Moments only, had been hours ! " 


That brought the immortal roses 




To Saint Cecilia's bridal chamber. 


" Years ! " said a voice close by. 


Elsie. But these will fade. 


It was an aged monk who spoke. 


Prince Henry. Themselves will fade. 


From a bench of oak 


But not their memory. 


Fastened against the wall ; — 


And memory has the power 


He was the oldest monk of all. 


To re-create them from the dust. 


For a whole century 


They remind me, too. 


Had he been there. 


Of martyred Dorothea, 


Serving God in prayer, 


Who from celestial gardens sent 


The meekest and humblest of his crea- 


Flowers as her witnesses 


tures. 


To him who scoffed and doubted. 


He remembered well the features 


Elsie. Do you know the story 


Of Felix, and he said. 


Of Christ and the Sultan's daughter ? 


Speaking distinct and slow ; 


That is the prettiest legend of them all. 


" One hundred years ago, 


Prince HeJtry. Then tell it to me. 


When I was a novice in this place. 


But first come hither. 


There was here a monk, full of God's 


Lay the flowers down beside me, 


grace, 


And put both thy hands in mine. 


Who bore the name 


Now tell me the story. 


Of Felix, and this man must be the 


Elsie. Early in the morning 


same." 


The Sultan's daughter 




Walked in her father's garden, 


And straightway 


Gathering the bright flowers. 


They brought forth to the light of day 


All full of dew. 


A volume old and brown. 


Prince Henry. Just as thou hast been 


A huge tome, bound 


doing 


In brass and wild-boar's hide, 


This morning, dearest Elsie. 



TffE GOLDEJV LEGEXD. 



233 







Elsie. And 
'' She wondered 
Who was the Master of the Flowers, 
And made them grow 
Out of the cold, dark earth. 
" In my heart," she said, 
" I love him ; and for him 
Would leave my father's palace, 
To labor in his garden." 

Prince Henry. Dear, innocent child ! 
How sweetly thou recallest 
The long-forgotten legend, 
That in my early childhood 
My mother told me ! 
Upon my brain. 
It reappears once more, 
As a birth-mark on the forehead 
When a hand suddenly 
Is laid upon it, and removed ! 

Elsie. And at midnight, 
As she lay upon her bed. 
She heard a voice 



as she gathered them, ^-1/ -- 
more and more " 1 

Call to her from the garden, 

And, looking forth from her window 

She saw a beautiful youth 

Standing among the flowers. 

It was the Lord Jesus ; 

And she went down to him. 

And opened the door for him ; 

And he said to her, " O maiden ! 

Thou hast thought of me with love, 

And for thy sake 

Out of my Father's kingdom 

Have I come hither : 

I am the Master of the Flowers. 

My garden is in Paradise, 

And if thou wilt go with me, 

Thy bridal garland 

Shall be of bright red flowers." 

And then he took from his finger 

A golden ring, 

And asked the Sultan's daughter 



224 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



If she would be his bride. 


But a crown of roses. 


And when she answered him with love, 


In thy bridal chamber. 


His wounds began to bleed, 


Like Saint Cecilia, 


And she said to him, 


Thou shalt hear sweet music, 


" O Love ! how red thy heart is. 


And breathe the fragrance 


And thy hands are full of roses." 


Of flowers immortal ! 


" For thy sake," answered he, 


Go now and place these flowers 


" For thy sake is my heart so red. 


Before her picture. 




For thee I bring these roses ; 
I gathered them at the cross 
Whereon I died for thee ! 
Come, for my Father calls. 
Thou art my elected bride ! " 
And the Sultan's daughter 
Followed him to his Father's garden. 

Prince Henry. Wouldst thou have 
done so, Elsie ? 

Elsie. Yes, very gladly. 

Prince Henry. Then the Celestial 
Bridegroom 
Will come for thee also. 
Upon thy forehead he will place. 
Not his crown of thorns. 



A room in the farm-house. Twilight. 
Ursula spinning. Gottlieb asleep in 
his chair. 

Ursula. Darker and darker ! Hardly 

a glimmer 
Of light comes in at the window-pane ; 
Or is it my eyes are growing dimmer .'' 
I cannot disentangle this skein. 
Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. 
Elsie ! 

Gottlieb (starting). The stopping of thy 

wheel 
Has wakened me out of a pleasant dream. 
I thoun;ht I was sitting beside a stream, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



And heard the grinding of a mill, 
When suddenly the wheels stood still, 
And a voice cried " Elsie " in my ear ! 
It startled me, it seemed so near. 

Ursula. I was calling her: I want a 
light. 
I cannot see to spin my flax. 
Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear ? 

Elsie (within). In a moment ! 

Gottlieb. Where are Bertha and Max ? 

Ursula, They are sitting with Elsie at 
the door. 
She is telling them stories of the wood. 
And the Wolf, and little Red Riding- 
hood. 

Gottlieb. And where is the Prince ? 

Ursula. In his room overhead ; 

I heard him walking across the floor. 
As he always does, with a heavy tread. 

(Elsie comes in with a lamp. Max and 
Bertha follow her ; and they all sing 
the Evening Song on the lighting of the 
lamps.) 

EVENING SONG. 

O gladsome light 
Of the Father Immortal, 
And of the celestial 
Sacred and blessed 
Jesus, our Saviour ! 

Now to the sunset 
Again hast thou brought us ; 
And, seeing the evening 
Twilight, we bless thee. 
Praise thee, adore thee 

Father omnipotent ! 
Son, the Life-giver ! 
Spirit, the Comforter ! 
Worthy at all times 
Of worship and wonder ! 

Prince Henry (at the door). Amen ! 
Ursula. Who was it said Amen ? 

Elsie. It was the Prince : he stood at 
the door, 
And listened a moment, as we chanted 
The evening song. He is gone again. 
I have often seen him there before. 
Ursula. Poor Prince ! 
Gottlieb. I thought the house was 
haunted ! 

IS 



Poor Prince, alas ! and yet as mild 
And patient as the gentlest child ! 

Max. I love him because he is so 
good, 
And makes me such fine bows and ar- 
rows, 
To shoot at the robins and the sparrows, 
And the red squirrels in the wood ! 
Bertha. I love him, too ! 
Gottlieb. Ah, yes ! we all 

Love him, from the bottom of our hearts ; 
He gave us the farm, the house, and the 

grange, 
He gave us the horses and the carts. 
And the great oxen in the stall. 
The vineyard, and the forest range ! 
We have nothing to give him but our 
love ! 
Bertha. Did he give us the beautiful 
stork above 
On the chimney-top, with its large, round 
nest .'' 
Gottlieb. No, not the stork ; by God 
in heaven, 
As a blessing, the dear white stork was 

given, 
But the Prince has given us all the rest. 
God bless him, and make him well again. 
Elsie. Would I could do something 
for his sake, 
Something to cure his sorrow and pain ! 
Gottlieb. That no one can ; neither 
thou nor I, 
Nor any one else. 

Elsie. And must he die ? 

Ursula. Yes ; if the dear God does 
not take 
Pity upon him, in his distress, 
And work a miracle ! 

Gottlieb. Or unless 

Some maiden, of her own accord, 

Offers her life for that of her lord. 

And is willing to die in his stead. 

Elsie. ' I will ! 

Ursula. Prithee, thou foolish child, be 
still ! 
Thou shouldst not say what thou dost 
not mean ! 
Elsie. I mean it truly ! 
Max. O father ! this morning, 

Down by the mill, in the ravine, 
Hans killed a wolf, the very same 
That in the night to the sheepfold came, 



226 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 







And ate up my lamb, that was left out- 
side. 
Gottlieb. I am glad he is dead. It will 
be a warning 
To the wolves in the forest, far and wide. 
Max. And I am going to have his 

hide! 
Bertha. I wonder if this is the wolf 
that ate 
Little Red Ridinghood ! 

Ursula. O no ! 

That wolf was killed a long while ago. 
Come, children, it is growing late. 

Max. Ah, how I wish I were a man, 
As stout as Hans is, and as strong ! 
I would do nothing else, the whole day 

long, 
But just kill wolves. 

Gottlieb. Then go to bed, 

And grow as fast as a little boy can. 



Bertha is half asleep already. 
See how she nods her heavy head. 
And her sleepy feet are so unsteady 
She will hardly be able to creep up stairs. 
Ursula. Good night, my children. 
Here 's the light. 
And do not forget to say your prayers 
Before you sleep. 

Gottlieb. Good night ! 

Max and Bertha. Good night ! 

(They go out with Elsie.) 

Ursula {spinning). She is a strange 
and wayward child. 
That Elsie of ours. She looks so old. 
And thoughts and fancies weird and wild 
Seem of late to have taken hold 
Of her heart that was once so docile and 
mild! 
Gottlieb. She is like all girls. 



7'HE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



227 



Ursula. Ah no, forsooth ! 

Unlike all I have ever seen. 
For she has visions and strange dreams, 
And in all her words and ways, she seems 
Much older than she is in truth. 
Who would think her but fifteen .' 
And there has been of late such a change ! 
My heart is heavy with fear and doubt 
That she may not live till the year is out. 



That hereafter I may meet thee, 
Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning. 
With my lamp well trimmed and burn- 
ing ! 

Interceding 

With these bleeding 

Wounds upon thy hands and side, 

For all who have lived and erred 




She is so strange, — so strange, — so 

strange ! 
Gottlieb. I am not troubled with any 

such fear ; 
She will live and thrive for many a year. 

Elsie's chamber. Night. El-SIE pray- 
ing. 

Elsie. My Redeemer and my Lord, 
I beseech thee, I entreat thee. 
Guide me in each act and word, 



Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, 
Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, 
And in the grave hast thou been buried ! 

If my feeble prayer can reach thee, 
O my Saviour, I beseech thee. 
Even as thou hast died for me, 
More sincerely 

Let me follow where thou leadest, 
Let me, bleeding as thou bleed'ist. 
Die, if dying I may give 



Life to one who asks to live, 

And more nearly, 

Dying thus, resemble thee ! 

The chamber of GOTTLIEB and Ursula. 
Midnight. ELSIE standing by their 
bedside, weepiiig. 

Gottlieb. The wind is roaring ; the 
rushing rain 
Is loud upon roof and window-pane, 
As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, 
Boding evil to me and mine. 
Were abroad to-night with his ghostly 

train ! 
In the brief lulls of the tempest wild, 
The dogs howl in the yard ; and hark ! 
Some one is sobbing in the dark. 
Here in the chamber ! 
Elsie. It is I. 

Ursula. Elsie ! what ails thee, my 

poor child ? 
Elsie. I am disturbed and much dis- 
tressed, 
In thinking our dear Prince must die ; 
I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. 

Gottlieb. What wouldst thou ? In the 
Power Divine 
His healing lies, not in our own ; 
It is in the hand of God alone. 

Elsie. Nay, he has put it into mine. 
And into my heart ! 

Gottlieb, Thy words are wild ! 

Urstda. What dost thou mean .' my 

child ! my child ! 
Elsie. That for our dear Prince Hen- 
ry's sake 
I will myself the offering make, 
And give my life to purchase his. 

Ursula. Am I still dreaming, or 
awake ? 
Thou speakest carelessly of death. 
And yet thou knowest not what it is. 
Elsie. 'T is the cessation of our 
breath. 
Silent and motionless we lie ; 
And no one knoweth more than this. 
I saw our little Gertrude die ; 
She left off breathing, and no more 
I smoothed the pillow beneath her 

head. 
She was more beautiful than before. 
Like violets faded were her eyes ; 
By this we knew that she was dead. 



Through the open window looked the 

skies 
Into the chamber where she lay, 
And the wind was like the sound of 

wings. 
As if angels came to bear her away. 
Ah ! when I saw and felt these things, 
I found it difficult to stay ; 
I longed to die, as she had died. 
And go forth with her, side by side. 
The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead. 
And Mary, and our Lord ; and I 
Would follow in humility 
The way by them illumined ! 

Ursula. My child ! my child ! thou 

must not die ! 
Elsie. Why should I live .'' Do I not 
know 
The life of woman is full of woe ! 
Toiling on and on and on. 
With breaking heart, and tearful eyes. 
And silent lips, and in the soul 
The secret longings that arise. 
Which this world never satisfies ! 
Some more, some less, but of the whole 
Not one quite happy, no, not one ! 

Ursula. It is the malediction of Eve ! 
Elsie. In place of it, let me receive 
The benediction of Mary, then. 

Gottlieb. Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is 
me ! 
Most wretched am I among men ! 

Ursula. Alas ! that I should live to 
see 
Thy death, beloved, and to stand 
Above thy grave ! Ah, woe the day ! 
Elsie. Thou wilt not see it. I shall 
lie 
Beneath the flowers of another land, 
For at Salerno, far away 
Over the mountains, over the sea, 
It is appointed me to die ! 
And it will seem no more to thee 
Than if at the village on market-day 
I should a little longer stay 
Than I am wont. 

Ursula. Even as thou sayest ! 

And how my heart beats, when thou 

stayest ! 
I cannot rest until my sight 
Is satisfied in seeing thee. 
What, then, if thou wert dead ? 

Gottlieb. Ah me ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



!29 




Of our old eyes thou art the light ! 

The joy of our old hearts art thou ! 

And wilt thou die ? 

Ursula. Not now ! not now ! 

Elsie. Christ died for me, and shall 
not I 

Be willing for my Prince to die ? 

You both are silent ; you cannot speak. 

This said I at our Saviour's feast 

After confession, to the priest, 

And even he made no reply. 

Does he not warn us all to seek 

The happier, better land on high. 

Where flowers immortal never wither ; 

And could he forbid me to go thither ? 
Gottlieb. In God's own time, my 
heart's delight ! 

When he shall call thee, not before ! 
Elsie. I heard him call. When 
Christ ascended 

Triumphantly, from star to star. 

He left the gates of heaven ajar. 

I had a vision in the night. 

And saw him standing at the door 

Of his Father's mansion, vast and splen- 
did 

And beckoning to me from afar. 

I cannot stay ! 

Gottlieb. She speaks almost 

As if it were the Holy Ghost 

Spake through her lips, and in her stead ! 

What if this were of God ? 



Ursula. Ah, then 

Gainsay it dare we not. 

Gottlieb. Amen ! 

Elsie ! the words that thou hast said 
Are strange and new for us to hear, 
And fill our hearts with doubt and fear. 
Whether it be a dark temptation 
Of the Evil One, or God's inspiration. 
We in our blindness cannot say. 
We must think upon it, and pray ; 
For evil and good it both resembles. 
If it be of God, his will be done ! 
May he guard us from the Evil One ! 
How hot thy hand is ! how it trembles ! 
Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. 

Ursula. Kiss me. Good night ; and 
do not weep ! 

(Elsie ^i?^j out.) 

Ah, what an awful thing is this ! 

I almost shuddered at her kiss, 

As if a ghost had touched my cheek, 

I am so childish and so weak ! 

As soon as I see the earliest gray 

Of morning glimmer in the cast, 

I will go over to the priest. 

And hear what the good man has to say ! 

A •village church. A woman kneeling at 
the confessional. 

The Parish Priest (from within). Gi>. 
sm no more ! Thy penance o'er. 



230 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



A new and better life begin ! 
God maketh thee forever free 
From the dominion of thy sin ! 
Go, sin no more ! He will restore 
The peace that filled thy heart before, 
And pardon thine iniquity ! 

{The woman goes out. The Priest comes 
forth, and walks slowly up and down 
the church.) 

O blessed Lord ! how much I need 
Thy light to guide me on my way ! 
So many hands, that, without heed, 



As offerings of my ministry ? 

What wrong repressed, what right main 

tained. 
What struggle passed, what victory 

gained. 
What good attempted and attained ? 
Feeble, at best, is my endeavor ! 
I see, but cannot reach, the height 
That lies forever in the light, 
And yet forever and forever. 
When seeming just within my grasp, 
I feel my feeble hands unclasp. 
And sink discouraged into night ! 




Still touch thy wounds, and make them 

bleed ! 
So many feet, that, day by day. 
Still wander from thy fold astray ! 
Unless thou fill me with thy light, 
I cannot lead thy flock aright ; 
Nor, without thy support, can bear 
The burden of so great a care, 
But am myself a castaway ! 

{A pause.) 

The day is drawing to its close ; 

And what good deeds, since first it rose 

Have I presented, Lord to thee, 



For thine own purpose, thou hast sent 
The strife and the discouragement ! 

{A pause.) 

Why stayest thou. Prince of Hoheneck ? 
Why keep me pacing to and fro 
Amid these aisles of sacred gloom. 
Counting my footsteps as I go. 
And marking with each step a tomb ? 
Why should the world for thee make 

room. 
And wait thy leisure and thy beck ? 
Thou comest in the hope to hear 
Some word of comfort and of cheer. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 231 


What can I say ? I cannot give 


The pulpit, from which such ponderous 


The counsel to do this and live ; 


sermons 


But rather, firmly to deny 


Have fallen down on the brains of the 


The tempter, though his power be strong. 


Germans, 


And, inaccessible to wrong. 


With about as much real edification 


Still like a martyr live and die ! 


As if a great Bible, bound in lead, 




Had fallen, and struck them on the 


{A pause.) 


head ; 


The evening air grows dusk and brown ; 


And I ought to remember that sensa- 


I must go forth into the town, 


tion ! 


To visit beds of pain and death, 


Here stands the holy-water stoup ! 


Of restless limbs, and quivering breath, 


Holy-water it may be to manV, 


And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes 


But to me, the veriest Liquor Gehennae ! 


That see, through tears, the sun go down, 


It smells like a filthy fast-day soup ! 


But nevermore shall see it rise. 


Near it stands the box for the poor ; 


The poor in body and estate. 


With its iron padlock, safe and sure. 


The sick and the disconsolate, 


I and the priest of the parish know 


Must not on man's convenience wait. 


Whither all these charities go ; 


(Goes out.) 


Therefore, to keep up the institution, 




I will add my little contribution ! 


{Enter Lucifer, as a Priest.) 




Lucifer {with a genuflexion, mocking). 


{He puts in money.) 


This is the Black Pater-noster. 


Underneath this mouldering tomb. 


God was my foster, 


With statue of stone, and scutcheon of 


He fostered me 


brass, 


Under the book of the Palm-tree ! 


Slumbers a great lord of the village. 


St. Michael was my dame. 


All his life was riot and pillage. 


He was born at Bethlehem, 


But at length, to escape the threatened 


He was made of flesh and blood. 


doom 


God send me my right food. 


Of the everlasting, penal fire. 


My right food, and shelter too. 


He died in the dress of a mendicant friar. 


That I may to yon kirk go. 


And bartered his wealth for a daily mass. 


To read upon yon sweet book 


But all that afterwards came to pass, 


Which the mighty God of heaven shook. 


And whether he finds it dull or pleasant, 


Open, open, hell's gates ! 


Is kept a secret for the present, 


Shut, shut, heaven's gates ! 


At his own particular desire. 


All the devils in the air 




The stronger be, that hear the Black 


And here, in a corner of the wall. 


Prayer ! 


Shadowy, silent, apart from all, 


{Looking round the church.) 


With its awful portal open wide. 

And its latticed windows on either side, 


What a darksome and dismal place ! 


And its step well worn by the bended 


[ wonder that any man has the face 


knees 


To call such a hole the House of the 


Of one or two pious centuries. 


Lord, 


Stands the village confessional ! 


And the Gate of Heaven, — yet such is 


Within it, as an honored guest, 


the word. 


I will sit me down awhile and rest ! 


Ceiling, and walls, and windows old. 


{Seats himself in the confessional.) 


Covered with cobwebs, blackened with 


mould ; 


Here sits the priest ; and faint and low. 


Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs. 


Like the sighing of an evening breeze. 


Dust on the benches, and stalls, and 


Comes through these painted lattices 


chairs ! 


The ceaseless sound of human woe ; 



232 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Here, while her bosom aches and throbs, 


Does the same madness fill thy brain } 


With deep and agonizing sobs. 


Or have thy passion and unrest 


That half are passion, half contrition. 


Vanished forever from thy mind .'' 


The luckless daughter of perdition 


Prince Henry. By the same madness 


Slowly confesses her secret shame ! 


still made blind. 


The time, the place, the lover's name ! 


By the same passion still possessed. 


Here the grim murderer, with a groan, 


I come again to the house of prayer. 


From his bruised conscience rolls the 


A man afflicted and distressed ! 


stone, 


As in a cloudy atmosphere. 


Thinking that thus he can atone 


Through unseen sluices of the air, 


For ravages of sword and flame ! 


A sudden and impetuous wind 


Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly, 


Strikes the great forest white with fear, 


How a priest can sit here so sedately. 


And every branch, and bough, and spray 


Reading, the whole year out and in. 


Points all its quivering leaves one way, 


Naught but the catalogue of sin. 


And meadows of grass, and fields of 


And still keep any faith whatever 


grain, 


In human virtue ! Never ! never ! 


And the clouds above, and the slanting 


I cannot repeat a thousandth part. 


ram. 
And smoke from chimneys of the town, 


Of the horrors and crimes and sins and 


Yield themselves to it, and bow down. 


woes 


So does this dreadful purpose press 


That arise, when with palpitating throes 


Onward, with irresistible stress, 


The graveyard in the human heart 


And all my thoughts and faculties, 


Gives up its dead, at the voice of the 


Struck level by the strength of this, 


priest, 


From their true inclination turn. 


As if he were an archangel, at least. 


And all stream forward to Salern ! 


It makes a peculiar atmosphere. 


Lucifer. Alas ! we are but eddies of 


This odor of earthly passions and crimes, 


dust. 


Such as I like to breathe, at times. 


Uplifted by the blast, and whirled 


And such as often brings me here 


Along the highway of the world 


In the hottest and most pestilential season. 


A moment only, then to fall 


To-day, I come for another reason ; 


Back to a common level all. 


To foster and ripen an evil thought 


At the subsiding of the gust ! 


In a heart that is almost to madness 


Prince Henry. O holy Father ! par- 


wrought. 


don in me 


And to make a murderer out of a prince, 


The oscillation of a mind 


A sleight of hand I learned long since ! 


Unsteadfast, and that cannot find 


He comes. In the twilight he will not see 


Its centre of rest and harmony ! 


The difference between his priest and me 1 


Forevermore before mine eyes 


In the same net was the mother caught ! 


This ghastly phantom flits and flies, 


Prince Henry {entering and kneeling ai 


And as a madman through a crowd, 


the cojtfessional). Remorseful, pen- 


With frantic gestures and wild cries, 


itent, and lowly. 


It hurries onward, and aloud 


I come to crave, O Father holy, 


Repeats its awful prophecies ! 


Thy benediction on my head. 


Weakness is wretchedness ! To be strong 


Lucifer. The benediction shall be said 


Is to be happy ! I am weak, 


After confession, not before ! 


And cannot find the good I seek. 


'T is a God-speed to the parting guest. 


Because I feel and fear the wrong ! 


Who stands already at the door. 


Lucifer. Be not alarmed ! The Church 


Sandalled with holiness, and dressed 


is kind. 


In garments pure from earthly stain. 


And in her mercy and her meekness 


Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy 


She meets half-way her children's weak- 


breast ? 


ness, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 233 


Writes their transgressions in the dust ! 


Let her fall down and anoint thy feet 


Though in the Decalogue we find 


With the ointment costly and most sweet 


The mandate written, " Thou shalt not 


Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. 


kill ! " 


Prince Henry. And will the righteous 


Yet there are cases when we must. 


Heaven forgive ? 


In war, for instance, or from scathe 


No action, whether foul or fair, 


To guard and keep the one trae Faith ! 


Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere 


We must look at the Decalogue in the 


A record, written by fingers ghostly, 


light 


As a blessing or a curse, and mostly 


Of an ancient statute, that was meant 


In the greater weakness or greater 


For a mild and general application, 


strength 


To be understood with the reservation, 


Of the acts which follow it, till at length 


That, in certain instances, the Right 


The wrongs of ages are redressed. 


Must yield to the Expedient ! 


And the justice of God made manifest ! 


Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die, 


iMcifer. In ancient records it is stated 


What hearts and hopes would prostrate 


That, whenever an evil deed is done. 


lie! 


Another devil is created 


What noble deeds, what fair renown. 


To scourge and torment the offending 


Into the grave with thee go down ! 


one ! 


What acts of valor and courtesy 


But evil is only good perverted. 


Remain undone, and die with thee ! 


And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, 


Thou art the last of all thy race ! 


But an angel fallen and deserted. 


With thee a noble name expires. 


Thrust from his Father's house with a 


And vanishes from the earth's face 


curse 


The glorious memory of thy sires ! 


Into the black and endless night. 


She is a peasant. In her veins 


Prince Henry. If justice rules the 


Flows common and plebeian blood ; 


universe. 


It is such as daily and hourly stains 


From the good actions of good men 


The dust and the turf of battle plains. 


Angels of light should be begotten. 


By vassals shed, in a crimson flood, 


And thus the balance restored again. 


Without reserve, and without reward. 


Lucifer. Yes ; if the world were not 


At the slightest summons of their lord ! 


so rotten, 


But thine is precious ; the fore-appointed 


And so given over to the Devil ! 


Blood of kings, of God's anointed ! 


Prince Henry. But this deed, is it 


Moreover, what has the world in store 


good or evil } 


For one like her, but tears and toil "i 


Have I thine absolution free 


Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, 


To do it, and without restriction .' 


A peasant's child and a peasant's wife. 


Lucifer. Ay ; and from whatsoever sin 


And her soul within her sick and sore 


Lieth around it and within. 


With the roughness and barrenness of 


From all crimes in which it may involve 


life! 


thee. 


I marvel not at the heart's recoil 


I now release thee and absolve thee ! 


From a fate like this, in one so tender, 


Prince Henry. Give me thy holy 


Nor at its eagerness to surrender 


benediction. 


All the wretchedness, want, and woe 


Lucifer [stretching forth his hand and 


That await it in this world below. 


muttering). 


For the unutterable splendor 


Of the world of rest beyond the skies. 


Maledictione perpetua 


So the Church sanctions the sacrifice : 


Maledicat vos 


Therefore inhale this healing balm. 


Pater etemus ! 


And breathe this fresh life into thine ; 


The Angel {^uith the dolian harp). 


Accept the comfort and the calm 


Take heed ! take heed ! 


She offers, as a gift divine ; 


Noble art thou in thy birth, 



234 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


By the good and the great of earth 


It is given freely ; 


Hast thou been taught ! 


May God bless the gift ! 


Be noble in every thought 


Prince Henry. And the giver ! 


And in every deed ! 


Gottlieb. Amen ! 


Let not the illusion of thy senses 


Prince Henry. I accept it ! 


Betray thee to deadly offences. 


Gottlieb. Where are the children 1 


Be strong ! be good ! be pure ! 


Ursula. They are already asleep. 


The right only shall endure, 


Gottlieb. What if they were dead ? 


All things else are but false pretences. 
I entreat thee, I implore, 


In the garden. 


Listen no more 


Elsie. I have one thing to ask of you. 


To the suggestions of an evil spirit, 


Prince Henry. What is it ? 


That even now is there, 


It is already granted. 


Making the foul seem fair, 


Elsie. Promise me. 


And selfishness itself a virtue and a 


When we are gone from here, and on our 


merit ! 


way 


A room in the farm-house. 


Are journeying to Salerno, you will not. 
By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade 


Gottlieb. It is decided ! For many 


me 


days, 


And turn me from -my purpose ; but re- 


And nights as many, we have had 


member 


A nameless terror in our breast. 


That as a pilgrim to the Holy City 


Making us timid, and afraid 


Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of 


Of God, and his mysterious ways ! 


pardon 


We have been sorrowful and sad ; 


Occupied wholly, so would I approach 


Much have we suffered, much have 


The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee, 


prayed 


With my petition, putting off from me 


That he would lead us as is best, 


All thoughts of earth, as shoes from off 


And show us what his will required. 


my feet. 


It is decided ; and we give 


Promise me this. 


Our child, O Prince, that you may live ! 


Prince Henry. Thy words fall from 


Ursula. It is of God. He has in- 


thy lips 


spired 


Like roses from the lips of Angelo : and 


This purpose in her ; and through pain. 


angels 


Out of a world of sin and woe. 


Might stoop to pick them up ! 


He takes her to himself again. 


Elsie. Will you not promise ? 


The mother's heart resists no longer ; 


Prince Henry. If ever we depart upon 


With the Angel of the Lord in vain 


this journey. 


It wrestled, for he was the stronger. 


So long to one or both of us, I promise. 


Gottlieb. As Abraham offered long ago 


Elsie. Shall we not go, then 1 Have 


His son unto the Lord, and even 


you lifted me 


The Everlasting Father in heaven 


Into the air, only to hurl me back 


Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, 


Wounded upon the ground ? and offered 


So do I offer up my daughter ! 


me 




The waters of eternal life, to bid me 


(Ursula hides her face.) 


Drink the polluted puddles of this world > 


Elsie. My life is little. 


Prince Henry. O Elsie ! what a 


Only a cup of water. 


lesson thou dost teach me ! 


But pure and limpid. 


The life which is, and that which is to 


Take it, O my Prince ! 


come. 


Let it refresh you. 


Suspended hang in such nice equipoise 


Let it restore you. 


A breath disturbs the balance ; and that 


It is given willingly. 


scale 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



235 



In which we throw our hearts prepon- 
derates, 

And the other, like an empty one, flics 
up, 

And is accounted vanity and air ! 

To me the thought of death is terrible, 

Having such hold on life. To thee it is 
not 

So much even as the lifting of a latch ; 

Only a step into the open air 

Out of a tent already luminous 

With light that shines through its trans- 
parent walls ! 

O pure in heart ! from thy sweet dust 
shall grow 

Lilies, upon whose petals will be written 

" Ave Maria " in characters of gold ! 

III. 

A street in Strasbiirg. Night. Prince 
Henry wattdering alone, wrapped in a 
cloak. 

Prince Henry. Still is the night. 

The sound of feet 
Has died away from the empty street. 
And like an artisan, bending down 
His head on his anvil, the dark town 
Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. 
Sleepless and restless, I alone. 
In the dusk and damp of these walls of 

stone. 
Wander and weep in my remorse ! 

Crier of the Dead [ringing a bell). 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

Prince Henry. Hark ! with what ac- 
cents loud and hoarse 
This warder on the walls of death 
Sends forth the challenge of his breath ! 
I see the dead that sleep in the grave ! 
They rise up and their garments wave. 
Dimly and spectral, as they rise, 
With the light of another world in their 
eyes ! 

Crier of the Dead. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 



Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

Prince Henry. Why for the dead, who 

are at rest ? 
Pray for the living, in whose breast 
The struggle between right and wrong 
Is raging terrible and strong, 
As when good angels war with devils ! 
This is the Master of the Revels, 
Who, at Life's flowing feast, proposes 
The health of absent friends, and pledges. 
Not in bright goblets crowned with 

roses. 
And tinkling as we touch their edges. 
But with his dismal, tinkling bell. 
That mocks and mimics their funeral 

knell ! 

Crier of the Dead. 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead ! 

Prince Henry. Wake not, beloved \ 
be thy sleep 
Silent as night is, and as deep ! 
There walks a sentinel at thy gate 
Whose heart is heavy and desolate, 
And the heavings of whose bosom 

number 
The respirations of thy slumber, 
As if some strange, mysterious fate 
Had linked two hearts in one, and mine 
Went madly wheeling about thine. 
Only with wider and wilder sweep ! 

Crier of the Dead {at a distance). 

Wake ! wake ! 
All ye that sleep ! 
Pray for the Dead I 
Pray for the Dead ! 

Prince Henry. Lo ! with what depth 
of blackness thrown 
Against the clouds, far up the skies 
The walls of the cathedral rise, 
Like a mysterious grove of stone, 
With fitful lights and shadows blend- 
ing, 
As from behind, the moon, ascending, 
Lights its dim aisles and paths un- 
known ! 



236 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 




The wind is rising ; but the boughs 
Rise not and fall not with the wind 
That through their foliage sobs and 

soughs ; 
Only the cloudy rack behind, 
Drifting onward, wild and ragged. 
Gives to each spire and buttress jagged 
A seeming motion undefined. 
Below on the square, an armed knight. 
Still as a statue and as white. 
Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams 

quiver 
Upon the points of his armor bright 
As on the ripples of a river. 
He lifts the visor from his cheek. 



And beckons, and makes as he would 

speak. 
Walter the Minnesinger. Friend ! can 

you tell me where alight 
Thuringia's horsemen for the night .' 
For I have lingered in the rear, 
And wander vainly up and down. 

Prince Henry. I am a stranger in the 

town. 
As thou art ; but the voice I hear 
Is not a stranger to mine ear. 
Thou art Walter of the Vogelwied ! 
Walter. Thou hast guessed rightly ; 

and thy name 
Is Henry of Hoheneck ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 237 


Prince Henry. Ay, the same. 


Prince Henry. 'T is too late ! 


Walter (embracing him). Come closer, 


I cannot strive against my fate ! 


closer to my side ! 


Walter. Come with me ; for my steed 


What brings thee hither ? What potent 


is weary ; 


charm 


Our journey has been long and dreary, 


Has drawn thee from thy German farm 


And, dreaming of his stall, he dints 


Into the old Alsatian city ? 


With his impatient hoofs the flints. 


Prince Henry. A tale of wonder and 


Prince Henry [aside). I am ashamed 


of pity ! 


in my disgrace, 


A wretched man, almost by stealth 


To look into that noble face ! 


Dragging my body to Salern, 


To-morrow, Walter, let it be. 


In the vain hope and search for health, 


Walter. To-morrow, at the dawn of 


And destined never to return. 


day. 


Already thou hast heard the rest. 


I shall again be on my way. 


But what brings thee, thus armed and 


Come with me to the hostelry, 


dight 


For I have many things to say. 


In the equipments of a knight ? 


Our journey into Italy 


Walier. Dost thou not see upon my 


Perchance together we may make ; 


breast 


Wilt thou not do it for my sake ? 


The cross of the Crusaders shine .' 


Prince Henry. A sick man's pace 


My pathway leads to Palestine. 


would but impede 


Prince Henry. Ah, would that way 


Thine eager and impatient speed. 


were also mine ! 


Besides, my pathway leads me round 


noble poet ! thou whose heart 


To Hirschau, in the forest's bound, 


Is like a nest of singing-birds 


Where I assemble man and steed. 


Rocked on the topmost bough of life. 


And all things for my journey's need. 


Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, 
And in the clangor of the strife 


{They go out.) 


Mingle the music of thy words .'' 


Lucifer (flying oi'er the city). Sleep, 


Walter. My hopes are high, my heart 


sleep, city ! till the light 


is proud. 


Wake you to sin and crime again. 


And like a trumpet long and loud. 


Whilst on your dreams, like dismal 


Thither my thoughts all clang and ring ! 


rain. 


My life is in my hand, and lo ! 


I scatter downward through the night 


I grasp and bend it as a bow. 


My maledictions dark and deep. 


And shoot forth from its trembling string 


I have more martyrs in your walls 


An arrow, that shall be, perchance. 


Than God has ; and they cannot sleep ; 


Like the arrow of the Israelite king 


They are my bondsmen and my thralls ; 


Shot from the window toward the east. 


Their wretched lives are full of pain. 


That of the Lord's deliverance ! 


Wild agonies of nerve and brain ; 


Prince Henry. My life, alas ! is what 


And every heart-beat, every breath. 


thou seest ! 


Is a convulsion worse than death ! 


enviable fate ! to be 


Sleep, sleep, city ! though within 


Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee 


The circuit of your walls there be 


With lyre and sword, with song and steel ; 


No habitation free from sin. 


A hand to smite, a heart to feel ! 


And all its nameless misery ; 


Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword. 


The aching heart, the aching head, 


Thou givest all unto thy Lord ; 


Grief for the living and the dead, 


While I, so mean and abject grown, 


And foul corruption of the time, 


Am thinking of myself alone. 


Disease, distress, and want, and woe, 


Walter. Be patient : Time will rein- 


And crimes, and passions that may 


state 


grow 


Thy health and fortunes. 


Until they ripen into crime ! 



238 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Square in fro? 1 1 of the Cathedral. Easter 
Sunday. Friar Qxi'XYi.'&^KV preaching 
to the crotud from a pulpit in the open 
air. Prince Henry and Elsie cross- 
ing the square. 

Prince IIen?y. This is the day, when 
from the dead 
Our Lord arose ; and everywhere, 
Out of their darkness and despair, 
Triumphant over fears and foes, 
The hearts of his disciples rose. 
When to the women, standing near, 



All hearts are glad ; and free from care 
The faces of the people shine. 
See what a crowd is in the square, 
Gayly and gallantly arrayed ! 

Elsie. Let us go back ; I am afraid ! 
Prince Henry. Nay, let us mount the 
church-steps here. 
Under the doorway's sacred shadow ; 
We can see all things, and be freer 
From the crowd that madly heaves and 
presses ! 
Elsie. What a gay pageant ! what 
bright dresses ! 




The Angel in shining vesture said, 

" The Lord is risen ; he is not here ! " 

And, mindful that the day is come, 

On all the hearths in Christendom 

The fires are quenched, to be again 

Rekindled from the sun, that high 

Is dancing in the cloudless sky. 

The churches are all decked with flowers. 

The salutations among men 

Are but the Angel's words divine, 

" Christ is arisen ! " and the bells 

Catch the glad murmur, as it swells. 

And chant together in their towers. 



It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. 

What is that yonder on the square .'' 
Prince Henry. A pulpit in the open 
air. 

And a Friar, who is preaching to the 
crowd 

In a voice so deep and clear and loud. 

That, if we listen, and give heed, 

His lowest words will reach the ear. 
Friar Cuthbert {gesticttlating and crack- 
ing a postilion'' s whip). What ho ! 
good people ! do you not hear ? 

Dashing along at the top of his speed, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



239 



Booted and spurred, on his jaded 
steed, 


{Great applause among the crowd.) 


A courier comes with words of cheer. 
Courier ! what is the news, I pray ? 
" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come you ? 
" From court." 


To come back to my text ! When the 

news was first spread 
That Christ was arisen indeed from the 

dead. 


Then I do not believe it ; you say it in 
sport. 


Very great was the joy of the angels in 
heaven ; 




{Cracks his whip again.) 

Ah, here comes another, riding this 

way; 
We soon shall know what he has to say. 
Courier ! what are the tidings to-day ? 
" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come you ? 

" From town." 
Then I do not believe it ; away with you, 

clown. 

(Cracks his whip more violently.) 

And here comes a third, who is spurring 
amain ; 

What news do you bring, with your loose- 
hanging rein. 

Your spurs wet with blood, and your 
bridle with foam .' 

" Christ is arisen ! " Whence come you ? 
" From Rome." 

Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. 

Ride on with the news, at the top of 
your speed ! 



And as great the dispute as to who should 

cany 
The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, 
Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. 
Old Father Adam was first to pro- 
pose. 
As being the author of all our woes ; 
But he was refused, for fear, said they. 
He would stop to eat apples on the 

way ! 
Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, 
Because he might meet with his brother 

Cain ! 
Noah, too, was refused, lest his weakness 

for wine 
Should delay him at every tavern-sign ; 
And John the Baptist could not get a 

vote. 
On account of his old-fashioned camel's- 

hair coat ; 
And the Penitent Thief, who died on the 

cross, 



240 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Was reminded that all his bones were 

broken ! 
Till at last, when each in turn had 

spoken, 
The company being still at a loss. 
The Angel, who rolled away the stone. 
Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone. 
And filled with glory that gloomy prison. 
And said to the Virgin, " The Lord is 

arisen ! " 

( The Cathedral bells ring.) 

But hark ! the bells are beginning to 

chime ; 
And I feel that I am growing hoarse. 
I will put an end to my discourse. 
And leave the rest for some other time. 
For the bells themselves are the best of 

preachers ; 
Their brazen lips are learned teachers. 
From their pulpits of stone, in the upper 

air, 
Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, 
Shriller than trumpets under the Law, 
Now a sermon and now a prayer. 
The clangorous hammer is the tongue, 
This way, that way, beaten and swung. 
That from mouth of brass, as from Mouth 

of Gold, 
May be taught the Testaments, New and 

Old. 
And above it the great cross-beam of 

wood 
Representeth the Holy Rood, 
Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are 

hung. 
And the wheel wherewith it is swayed 

and rung 
Is the mind of man, that round and round 
Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound ! 
And the rope, with its twisted cordage 

three, 
Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity 
Of Morals, and Symbols, and History ; 
And the upward and downward motions 

show 
That we touch upon matters high and 

low ; 
And the constant change and transmu- 
tation 
Of action and of contemplation, 
Downward, the Scripture brought from 

on high, 



Upward, exalted again to the sky ; 
Downward, the literal interpretation, 
Upward, the Vision and Mystery ! 

And now, my hearers, to make an end, 
I have only one word more to say ; 
In the church, in honor of Easter day, 
Will be represented a Miracle Play ; 
And I hope you will all have the grace to 

attend. 
Christ bring us at last to his felicity ! 
Pax vobiscum ! et Benedicite ! 

Jn the Cathedral. 

Chant. 

Kyrie Eleison ! 
Christe Eleison ! 
Elsie. I am at home here in my Fa- 
ther's house ! 

These paintings of the Saints upon the 
walls 

Have all familiar and benignant faces. 
Prince Henry. The portraits of the 
family of God ! 

Thine ovim hereafter shall be placed 
among them. 
Elsie. How very grand it is and won- 
derful ! 

Never have I beheld a church so splen- 
did ! 

Such columns, and such arches, and such 
windows, 

So many tombs and statues in the chapels, 

And under them so many confessionals. 

They must be for the rich. I should not 
like 

To tell my sins in such a church as this. 

Who built it .'' 

Prince Hetiry. A great master of his 
craft, 

Erwin von Steinbach ; but not he alone, 

For many generations labored with him. 

Children that came to see these Saints in 
stone. 

As day by day out of the blocks they 
rose. 

Grew old and died, and still the work 
went on. 

And on, and on, and is not yet com- 
pleted. 

The generation that succeeds our own 

Perhaps may finish it. The architect 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



241 




Built his great heart into these sculp- 
tured stones, 

And with him toiled his children, and 
their lives 

Were builded, with his own, into the 
walls, 

As offerings unto God. You see that 
statue 

Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes 

Upon the Pillar of the Angels yonder. 

That is the image of the master, carved 

By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina. 
Elsie. How beautiful is the column 

that he looks at ! 
Prince Henry. That, too, she sculp- 
tured. At the base of it 

Stand the Evangelists ; above their heads 

Four Angels blowing upon marble trum- 
pets. 

And over them the blessed Christ, sur- 
rounded 

By his attendant ministers, upholding 

The instruments of his passion. 

Elsie. O my Lord ! 

Would I could leave behind me upon 
earth 

16 



Some monument to thy glory, such as 

this ! 
Prince Henry. A greater monument 

than this thou leavest 
In thine own life, all purity and love ! 
See, too, the Rose, above the western 

portal 
Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous 

colors, 
The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness ! 
Elsie. And, in the gallery, the long 

line of statues, 
Christ with his twelve Apostles watching 



(A Bishop in armor, booted and spurred, 
passes with his train.) 

Prince Henry. But come away ; we 
have not time to look. 
The crowd already fills the church, and 

yonder 
Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet. 
Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims 
The Mystery that will now be repre- 
sented. 



242 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



THE NATIVITY. 

A MIRACLE-PLAY. 

INTROrrUS. 

PrcEco. Come, good people, all and 
each, 
Come and listen to our speech ! 
In your presence here I stand, 
With a trumpet in my hand. 
To announce the Easter Play, 
Which we represent to-day ! 
First of all we shall rehearse, 
In our action and our verse. 
The Nativity of our Lord, 
As written in the old record 
Of the Protevangelion, 
So that he who reads may run ! 

{Blcnvs his triLmpet. ) 

I. HEAVEN. 

Mercy {at the feet of God). Have pity, 
Lord ! be not afraid 
To save mankind, whom thou hast made, 
Nor let the souls that were betrayed 
Perish eternally ! 
Justice. It cannot be, it must not be ! 
When in the garden placed by thee. 
The fruit of the forbidden tree 
He ate, and he must die ! 
Mercy. Have pity. Lord ! let penitence 
Atone for disobedience. 
Nor let the fruit of man's offence 
Be endless misery ! 
Jtcstice. What penitence proportionate 
Can e'er be felt for sin so great .'' 
Of the forbidden fruit he ate. 
And damned must he be ! 
God. He shall be saved, if that within 
The bounds of earth one free from sin 
Be found, who for his kith and kin 
Will suffer martyrdom. 
The Four Virtues. Lord ! we have 
searched the world around. 
From centre to the utmost bound. 
But no such mortal can be found ; 
Despairing, back we come. 
Wisdom. No mortal, but a God made 
man, 
Can ever carry out this plan, 
Achieving what none other can, 
Salvation unto all ! 



God. Go, then, O my beloved Son ! 
It can by thee alone be done ; 
By thee the victory shall be won 
O'er Satan and the Fall ! 

(L/ere the Angel Gabriel shall leave 
Paradise and fly towards the earth ; the 
Jaws of Hell open below, and the Devils 
walk about, making a great nois^.) 

U. MARY AT THE WELL. 

Mary. Along the garden walk, and 
thence 
Thiough the wicket in the garden 
fence, 
I steal with quiet pace. 
My pitcher at the well to fill, 
_ That lies so deep and cool and still 

In this sequestered place. 
These sycamores keep guard around ; 
I see no face, I hear no sound. 

Save bubblings of the spring, 
And my companions, who within 
The threads of gold and scarlet spin. 
And at their labor sing. 
The Angel Gabriel. Hail, Virgin 
Mary, full of grace ! 

[Here Mary looketh around her, tretn- 
blifig, and then saith :) 

Mary. Who is it speaketh in this 
place. 
With such a gentle voice } 
Gabriel. . The Lord of heaven is with 
thee now ! 
Blessed among all women thou. 
Who art his holy choice ! 
Mary {setting dcw7t the pitcher). Wliat 
can this mean ? No one is near. 
And yet, such sacred words I hear, 
I almost fear to stay. 

{Here the Angel appearing to her, shali 
say :) 

Gab7-iel. Fear not, O Mary ! but be- 
lieve ! 
For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive 
A child this very day. 

Fear not, O Mary ! from the sky 
The majesty of the Most High 
Shall overshadow thee ! 

Mary. Behold the handmaid of the 
Lord! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



243 




^"^^"'^^^ 



According to thy holy word, 
So be it unto me ! 

[Here the Devils shall again make a great 
noise, tinder the stage.) 

III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLAN- 
ETS, BEARING THE STAR OF BETH- 
LEHEM. 

The Angels. The Angels of the 
Planets Seven, 
Across the shining fields of heaven 

The natal star we bring ! 
Dropping our sevenfold virtues down. 
As priceless jewels in the crown 
Of Christ, our new-born King. 
Raphael. I am the Angel of the Sun, 
Whose flaming wheels began to run 
When God's almighty breath 



Said to the darkness and the Night, 
Let there be light ! and there was 
light ! 
I bring the gift of Faith. 
Gabriel. I am the Angel of tiie Moon, 
Darkened, to be rekindled soon 

Beneath the azure cope ! 
Nearest to earth, it is my ray 
That best illumes the midnight way. 
I bring the gift of Hope ! 
Anael. The Angel of the Star of 
Love, 
The Evening Star, that shines above 

The place where lovers be. 
Above all happy hearths and homes, 
On roofs of thatch, or golden domes, 
I give him Charity ! 
Zobiachel. The Planet Jupiter is 
mine ! 
The mightiest star of all that shine, 



244 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Except the sun alone ! 
He is the High Priest of the Dove, 
And sends, from his great throne above, 
Justice, that shall atone ! 
Michael. The Planet Mercury, whose 
place 
Is nearest to the sun in space, 

Is my allotted sphere ! 
And with celestial ardor swift 
I bear upon my hands the gift 
Of heavenly Prudence here ! 



IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST. 

The stable of the Inn. The Virgin and 
Child. Three Gypsy Kings, Caspar, 
Melchior, and Belshazzar, shall 
come in. 

Caspar. Hail to thee, Jesus of Naz- 
areth ! 
Though in a manger thou draw breath, 
Thou art greater than Life and Death, 
Greater than Joy or Woe ! 




Uriel. I am the Minister of Mars, 
The strongest star among the stars ! 

My songs of power prelude 
The march and battle of man's life. 
And for the suffering and the strife, 

I give him Fortitude ! 
Orifel. The Angel of the uttermost 
Of all the shining, heavenly host. 

From the far-off expanse 
Of the Saturnian, endless space 
I bring the last, the crowning grace. 

The gift of Temperance ! 

{A sudden light sltittes frotn the windows 
of the stable in the village below.) 



This cross upon the line of life 
Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife, 
And through a region with peril rife 
In darkness shalt thou go ! 
Melchior. Hail to thee. King of Jeru- 
salem ! 
Though humbly born in Bethlehem, 
A sceptre and a diadem 

Await thy brow and hand ! 
The sceptre is a simple reed. 
The crown will make thy temples bleed. 
And in thy hour of greatest need. 
Abashed thy subjects stand ! 
Belshazzar. Hail to thee, Christ of 
Christendom ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



245 










O'er all the earth thy kingdom come ! 
From distant Trebizond to Rome 

Thy name shall men adore ! 
Peace and good-will among all men, 
The Virgin has returned again, 
Returned the old Satumian reign 
And Golden Age once more. 
The Child Christ. Jesus, the Son of 
God, am I, 
Born here to suffer and to die 
According to the prophecy, 
That other men may live ! 
The Virion. And now these clothes, 
that wrapped him, take 
And keep them precious, for his sake ; 
Our benediction thus we make, 
Naught else have we to give. 

{She gives them swaddling-clothes, and 
they depart.) 

V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYFr. 

{Here shall Joseph come in, leading an 
ass, on which are seated Mary and the 
Child.) 



Mary. Here will we rest us, under 
these 
O'erhanging branches of the trees. 
Where robins chant their Litanies 
And canticles of joy. 
Joseph. My saddle-girths have given 
way 
With trudging through the heat to- 
day ; 
To you I think it is but play 
To ride and hold the boy. 
Mary. Hark ! how the robins shout 
and sing, 
As if to hail their infant King ! 
I will alight at yonder spring 
To wash his little coat. 
Joseph. And I will hobble well the 
ass. 
Lest, being loose upon the grass. 
He should escape ; for, by the mass. 
He 's nimble as a goat. 

(Here Mary shall alight and go to the 
spring.) 



246 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Mary. O Joseph ! I am much afraid, 
For men are sleeping in the shade ; 
I fear that we shall be waylaid, 
And robbed and beaten sore ! 

{Here a band of robbers shall be seen sleep- 
ing, hoo of whom shall rise and come 
forward.) 

Dnmachiis. Cock's soul ! deliver up 

your gold ! 
Joseph. I pray you, Sirs, let go your 
hold! 
You see that I am weak and old. 
Of wealth I have no store. 
Diimachus. Give up your money !> 
Titus. Prithee cease. 

Let these good people go in peace. 

Duviachiis. First let them pay for 
their release, 
And then go on their way. 
Titus. These forty groats I give in fee. 
If thou wilt only silent be. 

Mary. May God be merciful to thee. 

Upon the Judgment Day ! 
Jesus. When thirty years shall have 
gone by, 
I at Jerusalem shall die, 
By Jewish hands exalted high 

On the accursed tree. 
Then on my right and my left side. 
These thieves shall both be crucified. 
And Titus thenceforth shall abide 
In paradise with me. 

(Here a great rumor of trumpets and 
horses, like the noise of a king with his 
army, and the robbers shall take flight.) 

VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS. 

King Herod. Potz-tausend ! Himmel- 
sacrament ! 
Filled am I with great wonderment 

At this unwelcome news ! 

Am I not Herod ? Who shall dare 

My crown to take, my sceptre bear, 

As king among the Jews .'' 

{Here he shall stride up and down and 
flourish his sword.) 

What ho ! I fain would drink a can 
Of the strong wine of Canaan ! 
The wine of Helbon bring 
I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, 



As red as blood, as hot as fire. 
And fit for any king ! 

{He qitaffs great goblets of zvine.) 

Now at the window will I stand, 
While in the street the armed band 

The little children slay : 
The babe just born in Bethlehem 
Will surely slaughtered be with them, 

Nor live another day ! 

{Here a voice of lamentation shall be heard 
in the street.) 

Rachel. O wicked king ! O cruel 
speed ! 
To do this most unrighteous deed ! 
My children all are slain : 
Herod. Ho, seneschal ! another cup ! 
With wine of Sorek fill it up ! 
I would a bumper drain ! 
Kahab. May maledictions fall and 
blast 
Thyself and lineage, to the last 
Of all thy kith and kin ! 
Herod. Another goblet ! quick ! and 
stir 
Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh 
And calamus therein ! 
Soldiers {in the street). Give up thy 
child into our hands ! 
It is King Herod who commands 
That he should thus be slain ! 
The Nurse Medusa. O monstrous 
men ! What have ye done ! 
It is King Herod's only son 

That ye have cleft in twain ! 
Herod. Ah, luckless day ! What 
words of fear 
Are these that smite upon my ear 

With such a doleful sound ! 
What torments rack my heart and head ! 
Would I were dead ! would I were dead, 
And buried in the ground ! 

{He falls dozmt and writhes as though 
eaten by woi'fns. Hell opens, and 
Satan and Astaroth coyne forth, and 
drag hi??i down.) 

VII, JESUS at play with HIS SCHOOL- 
MATES. 

Jesus. The shower is over. Let us 

play. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



247 



And make some sparrows out of clay, 
Down by the river's side. 
'Judas. See, how the stream has over- 
flowed 
Its banks, and o'er the meadow road 
Is spreading far and wide ! 

{^They draw water out of the river by 
cha7inels, and form little pools. Jesus 
makes twelve sparrows of clay, and the 
other boys do the same.) 
Jesus. Look ! look ! how prettily I 
make 



Judas. Thou art a sorcerer, I know ; 
Oft has my mother told me so, 
I will not play with thee ! 

(He strikes Jesus on the right side.) 

Jesus. Ah, Judas ! thou hast smote 
my side. 
And when I shall be crucified, 
There shall I pierced be ! 

[Here Joseph shall come in, and say :) 

Joseph. Ye wicked boys ! why do ye 
play. 




These little sparrows by the lake 

Bend down their necks and drink ! 
Now will I make them sing and soar 
So far, they shall return no more 
Unto this river's brink. 
Judas. That canst thou not ! They 
are but clay. 
They cannot sing, nor fly away 
Above the meadow lands ! 
Jesus. Fly, fly ! ye sparrows ! you are 
free ! 
\nd while you live, remember me 
Who made you with my hands. 

{Here Jesus shall clap his hands, and the 
sparrotus shall flv away, chirrupin^:^.) 



And break the holy Sabbath day ? 
What, think ye, will your mothers say 

To see you in such plight ! 
In such a sweat and such a heat, 
With all that mud upon your feet ! 
There 's not a beggar in the street 

Makes such a sorry sight ! 

viir. THE village schoou 

[The Rabbi Ben Israei^ with a long 
beard, sitting on a high stool, with a rod 
in his hand.) 

Rabbi. I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, 
Throughout this village known full well. 



And, as my scholars all will tell, 

Learned in things divine ; 
The Cabala and Talmud hoar 
Than all the prophets prize I more, 
For water is all Bible lore, 

But Mishna is strong wine. 

My fame extends from West to East, 
And always, at the Purim feast, 
I am as drunk as any beast. 

That wallows in his sty ; 
The wine it so elateth me, 
That I no difference can see 
Between " Accursed Haman be ! " 

And " Blessed be Mordecai ! " 

Come hither, Judas Iscariot, 
Say, if thy lesson thou hast got 
From the Rabbinical Book or not. 
Why howl the dogs at night ? 
Judas. In the Rabbinical Book, it 
saith 
The dogs howl, when with icy breath 
Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, 
Takes through the town his flight ! 
Rabbi. Well, boy ! now say, if thou 
art wise. 
When the Angel of Death, who is full of 

eyes. 
Comes where a sick man dying lies, 
What doth he to the wight ? 
Judas. He stands beside him, dark 
and tall. 
Holding a sword, from which doth fall 
Into his mouth a drop of gall. 
And so he turneth white. 
Rabbi. And now, my Judas, say to me 
What the great Voices Four may be. 
That quite across the world do flee, 
And are not heard by men .' 
Judas. The Voice of the Sun in 
heaven's dome. 
The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, 
The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, 
And the Angel of the Rain ! 
Rabbi. Right are thine answers every 
one ! 
Now little Jesus, the carpenter's son. 
Let us see how thy task is done, 
Canst thou thy letters say ? 
Jesus. Aleph. 

Rabbi. What next .-' Do not stop yet ! 
Go on with all the alphabet. 



Come, Aleph, Beth ; dost thou forget ? 
Cock's soul ! thou 'dst rather play ! 
Jesus. What Aleph means I fain 
would know, 
Before I any further go ! 

Rabbi. O, by Saint Peter ! wouldst 
thou so ? 
Come hither, boy, to me. 
As surely as the letter Jod 
Once cried aloud, and spake to God, 
So surely shalt thou feel this rod. 
And punished shalt thou be ! 

(Here Rabbi Ben ISKA^h shall lift up his 
rod to strike Jesus, and his right arm 
shall be paralyzed.) 

IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS. 

(Jesus sitting among his playmates crowned 
with Jloivers as their King.) 

Boys. We spread our garments on the 
ground ! 
With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned, 
While like a guard we stand around. 

And hail thee as our King ! 
Thou art the new King of the Jews ! 
Nor let the passers-by refuse 
To bring that homage which men use 
To majesty to bring. 

[Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys 
shall lay hold of his garments and say :) 

Boys. Come hither ! and all reverence 
•pay 
Unto our monarch, crowned to-day ! 
Then go rejoicing on your way, 
In all prosperity ! 
Traveller. Hail to the King of Beth- 
lehem, 
Who weareth in his diadem 
The yellow crocus for the gem 
Of his authority ! 

[He passes by ; and others come in, bearing 
on a litter a sick child.) 

Boys. Set down the litter and draw 
near ! 
The King of Bethlehem is here ! 
What ails the child, who seems to fear 
That we shall do him harm .' 
The Bearers. He climbed up to the 
robin's nest. 
And out there darted, from his rest. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



249 



A serpent with a crimson crest, 
And stung him in the arm. 
yesus. Bring him to me, and let me 
feel 
The wounded place ; my touch can 

heal 
The sting of serpents, and can steal 
The poison from the bite I 

[^He touches the wound, and the boy begins 
to cry.) 

Cease to lament ! I can foresee 



That thou hereafter known shall be 
Among the men who follow me. 
As Simon the Canaanite ! 

EPILOGUE. 

In the after part of the day 

Will be represented another play, 

Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, 

Beginning directly after Nones 1 

At the close of which we shall accord. 

By way of benison and reward, 

The sight of a holy Martyr's bones I 




IV. 

The road to Hirschau. Prince Henry and Elsie, with their attendants, on horse- 
back. 



Elsie. Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bear- 
ing 
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring ! 

Prince Henry. This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain. 
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain. 
Elsie. Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleed;? with the 
stigma 
Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma. 
Prince Henry. Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may 
betide ; 
Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel's 
side ? 



250 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 




Elsn All the hedges 
aiewhitewithdubt, 

and the gieat dog undci the creaking 
warn 
Hang-> his head in the Hzy heat, while 
on .\ lid the horses toil and stiain. 
Pi iiue Htm) Now they stop at the 
wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs 
with the landlord's daughter. 
While out of the dripping trough the horses 
distend their leathern sides with water. 
Elsie. All through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh Lis soul with 
love ; 
Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above. 
Prince Henry. Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the high- 
way ends. 
And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends. 
Elsie. I am not sony to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat ; 
The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses' feet. 

( They turn down a green lane. ) 

Elsie. Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles 
below 
(s white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest snow. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



25' 



Prince Hetiry. Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant 
hill; 
We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still. 
Elsie. Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by our 
side ! 
What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide ? 
Prince Henry. It is the home of the Counts of Calva ; well have I known these 
scenes of old. 
Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the 
wold. 




Elsie. Hark ! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing foT 



Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain. 
Prince Hnry. They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a litfle 
cloud. 
That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. 

(They pass on.) 

The Convent of LLirschau in the Black Forest. The Convent cellar. Friar Claus 
comes in with a light and a basket of empty flagons. 

Friar Claus. I always enter this sacred place 
With a thoughtful, solemn, and reverent jiacc, 
Pausing long enough on each stair 



252 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



%^ 



•^■^ 



To breathe an ejaculatorv prayer. 

And a benediction on the \ines 

Thit produce these vaiioub soitb of wines ! 

I oi my part, I im well content 

I hat we have got thiough with the tedious I ent ! 

Fasting IS all very well for those 

Who have to contend with invisible foes : 

But I am quite sure it does not agree 

With a quiet, peace ible man like me, 

Who am not of that nervous and 

meicrie knid ': . 




That are always distressed in body and 

mind ! 
And at times it really does me good 
To come down among this brother- 
hood, 
Dwelling forever under ground. 
Silent, contemplative, round and sound ; 
Each one old, and brown with mould. 
But filled to the lips with the ardor of 
youth, 



With the latent power and love of truti , 
And with virtues fervent and manifold. 

I have heard it said, that at Easter- 
tide, 
When buds are swelling on every side, 
And the sap begins to move in the 

vine. 
Then in all cellars, far and wide, 
The oldest, as well as the newest, wine 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



253 




Begins to stir itself, and ferment, 
With a kind of revolt and discontent 
At being so long in darkness pent, 
And fain would burst from its sombre tun 
To bask on the hillside in the sun ; 
As in the bosom of us poor friars, 
The tumult of half-subdued desires 
For the world that we have left behind 
Disturbs at times all peace of mind ! 
And now that we have lived through 

Lent, 
My duty it is, as often before, 
To open awhile the prison-door. 
And give these restless spirits vent. 



Now here is a cask that stands alone, 
And has stood a hundred years or more, 
Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar, 
Trailing and sweeping along the floor, 
Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave. 
Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, 
Till his beard has grown through the 

table of stone ! 
It is of the quick and not of the dead ! 
In its veins the blood is hot and red. 
And a heart still beats in those ribs of 

oak 
That time may have tamed, but has not 

broke ! 




254 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 




It comes from Bacharach oi\the Rhine, 
Is one of the three best kinds of wine, 
And costs some hundred florins the 

ohm ; 
But that I do not consider dear, 
When I remember that eveiy year 
Four butts are sent to the Pope of 

Rome. 
And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, 
The old rhyme keeps running in my 
brain : 
At Bacharach on the Rhine, 
At Hochheim on the Main, 
And at Wiirzburg on the Stem, 
Grow the three best kinds of wine ! 

They are all good wines, and better far 
Than those of the Neckar, or those of the 

Ahr. 
In particular, Wiirzburg well may boast 
Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, 
Which of all wines I like the most. 
This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, 



Who seems to be much of my way of 
thinking. 

{Fills a flagon.) 

Ah ! how the streamlet laughs and sings ! 

What a delicious fragrance springs 

From the deep flagon, while it fills. 

As of hyacinths and daffodils ! 

Between this cask and the Abbot's 
lips 

Many have been the sips and slips ; 

Many have been the draughts of wine, 

On their way to his, that have stopped at 
mine ; 

And many a time my soul has hankered 

For a deep draught out of his silver 
tankard. 

When it should have been busy with 
other affairs. 

Less with its longings and more wiih its 
prayers. 

But now there is no such awkward con- 
dition, 



THE GOLDEJV LEGEND. 



255 



No danger of death and eternal perdi- 
tion ; 
So here 's to the Abbot and Brothers all, 
Who dwell in this convent of Peter and 
Paul! 

[fie drinks.) 

O cordial delicious ! O soother of pain ! 
It flashes like sunshine into my brain ! 
A benison rest on the Bishop who sends 
Such a fudder of wine as this to his 
friends ! 



What a seething and simmering in his 

breast ! 
As if the heaving of his great heart 
Would burst his belt of oak apart ! 
Let me unloose this button of wood, 
And quiet a little his turbulent mood. 

{Sets it running.) 

See ! how its currents gleam and shine, 
As if they had caught the purple hues 
Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, 
Descending and mingling with the dews ; 




And now a flagon for such as may ask 
A draught from the noble Bacharach 

cask. 
And I will be gone, though I know full 

well 
The cellar 's a cheerfuller place than the 

cell. 
Behold where he stands, all sound and 

good, 
Brown and old in his oaken hood ; 
Silent he seems externally 
As any Carthusian monk may be : 
But within, what a spirit of deep unrest ! 



Or as if the grapes were stained with the 

blood 
Of the innocent boy, who, some years 

back, 
Was taken and crucified by the Jews, 
In that ancient town of Bacharacli ; 
Perdition upon those infidel Jews, 
In that ancient town of Bacharach ! 
The beautiful town, that gives us wine 
With the fragrant odor of Muscadine ! 
I should deem it wrong to let this pass 
Without first touching my lips to the 

glass, 



256 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



For here in the midst of the current I 

stand, 
Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the 

river, 
Taking toll upon either hand, 
And much more grateful to the giver. 

{He drinks.) 

Here, now, is a very inferior kind. 
Such as in any town you may find, 
Such as one might imagine would suit 
The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. 



Being rather the rude disciples of beer 
Than of anything more refined and 
dear ! 

{Fills the other flagon and departs.) 

The Scriptorium. Friar Pacificus 
transcribing and illnminating. 

Friar Pacificns. It is growing dark ! 
Yet one line more. 
And then my work for to-day is o'er. 
I come again to the name of the Lord ! 
Ere I that awful name record, 




And, after all, it was not a crime. 
For he won thereby Dorf Hiiffelsheim. 
A jolly old toper ! who at a pull 
Could drink a postilion's jack-boot full, 
And ask with a laugh, when that was 

done. 
If the fellow had left the other one ! 
This wine is as good as we can afford 
To the friars, who sit at the lower 

board. 
And cannot distinguish bad from good. 
And are far better off than if they 

could, 



That is spoken so lightly among men. 
Let me pause awhile, and wash my 

pen; 
Pure from blemish and blot must it be 
When it writes that word of mystery ! 

Thus have I labored on and on. 

Nearly through the Gospel of John. 

Can it be that from the lips 

Of this same gentle Evangelist, 

That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, 

Came the dread Apocalypse ! 

It has a very awful look. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



257 



As it stands there at the end of the 

book, 
Like the sun in an ech'pse. 
Ah me ! when I think of that vision 

divine, 
Think of writing it, line by line, 
I stand in awe of the terrible curse, 
Like the trump of doom, in the closing 

verse ! 
God forgive me ! if ever I 
Take aught from the book of that 

Prophecy, 
Lest my part toe should be taken away 
From the Book of Life on the Judgment 

Day. 

This is well written, though I say it ! 
I should not be afraid to display it. 
In open day, on the selfsame sh»lf 
With the writings of St. Thecla herself, 
Or of Theodosius, who of old 
Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold ! 
That goodly folio standing yonder. 
Without a single blot or blunder. 
Would not bear away the palm from 

mine, 
[f we should compare them line for line. 

There, now, is an initial letter ! 
Saint Ulric himself never made a bet- 
ter ! 
Finished down to the leaf and the snail, 
Down to the eyes on the peacock's 

tail ! 
And now, as I turn the volume over, 
\nd see what lies between cover and 

cover, 
What treasures of art these pages hold. 
All ablaze with crimson and gold, 
God forgive me ! I seem to feel 
\. certain satisfaction steal 
Into my heart, and into my brain, 
As if my talent had not lain 
Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. 
Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, 
Here is a copy of thy Word, 
Written out with much toil and pain ; 
Take it, O Lord, and let it be 
As something I have done for thee ! 

{He looks from the windozv.) 

How sweet the air is ! How fair the 
scene ! 

17 



I wish I had as lovely a green 

To paint my landscapes and my leaves I 

How the swallows twitter under the 

eaves ! 
There, now, there is one in her nest ; 
I can just catch a glimpse of her head 

and breast. 
And will sketch her thus, in her quiei 

nook. 
For the margin of my Gospel book. 

[He makes a sketch.) 

I can see no more. Through the valley 

yonder 
A shower is passing ; I hear the thunder 
Mutter its curses in the air, 
The Devil's own and only prayer ! 
The dusty road is brown with rain. 
And, speeding on with might and main, 
Hitherward rides a gallant train. 
They do not parley, they cannot wait. 
But huny in at the convent gate. 
What a fair lady ! and beside her 
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider ! 
Now she gives him her hand to alight ; 
They will beg a shelter for the night. 
I will go down to the corridor. 
And try to see that face once more ; 
It will do for the face of some beautiful 

Saint, 
Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. 

(Goes out.) 

The Cloisters. The Abbot Ernestus 
pacing to and fro. 

Abbot. Slowly, slowly up the wall 
Steals the sunshine, steals the shade ; 
Evening damps begin to fall, 
Evening shadows are displayed. 
Round me, o'er me, everywhere, 
All the sky is grand with clouds, 
And athwart the evening air 
Wheel the swallows home in crowds. 
Shafts of sunshine from the west 
Paint the dusky windows red ; 
Darker shadows, deeper rest, 
Underneath and overhead. 
Darker, darker, and more wan. 
In my breast the shadows fall ; 
Upward steals the life of man, 
As the sunshine from the wall. 
From the wall into the skv, 



258 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



From the roof along the spire ; 
Ah, the souls of those that die 
Are but sunbeams lifted higher. 

{Enter Prince Henry.) 

Prince Henry. Christ is arisen ! 

Abbot. Amen ! he is arisen ! 

His peace be with you ! 

Prince Henry. Here it reigns forever ! 
The peace of God, that passeth under- 
standing, 



Prince Henry. How fares it with the 
holy monks of Hirschau ? 
Are all things well with them .■' 

Abbot. All things are well. 

Prince Henry. A noble convent ! I 
have known it long 
By the report of travellers 
Their commendations lag 

truth. 
You lie here in the valley of the Nagokl 
As in a nest : and the still river, gliding 



^^^»- 



I now see 
behind the 




Reigns in these cloisters and these 

corridors. 
Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the convent ? 
Abbot. I am. 

Prince Henry. And I i'rincc Henry 
of Hoheneck, 
Who crave your hospitality to-night. 
Abbot. You are thrice welcome to our 
humble walls. 
You do us honor ; and we shall requite it, 
I fear, but poorly, entertaining you 
With Paschal eggs, and our poor con- 
vent wine. 
The remnants of our Easter holidays. 



Along its bed, is like an admonition 

How all things pass. Your lands are 
rich and ample. 

And your revenues large. God's bene- 
diction 

Rests on your convent. 

Abbot. IJy our charities 

We strive to merit it. ( >ur Lord and 
Master, 

When he departed, left us in his will, 

As our best legacy on earth, the 
poor ! 

These we have always with us ; had we 
not. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 259 


Our hearts would grow as hard as are 


Prince Henry. We must all die, and 


these stones. 


not the old alone ; 


Prince Henry. If I remember right, 


The young have no exemption from that 


the Counts of Calva 


doom. 


Founded your convent. 


Abbot. Ah, yes ! the young may diCj 


Abbot. Even as you say. 


but the old must ! 


Prince Hewy. And, if I err not, it is 


That is the difference. 


very old. 


Prince Henry. I have heard much 


Abbot. Within these cloisters lie al- 


laud 


ready buried 


Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium 


Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the 


Is famous among all ; your manuscripts 


flags 


Praised for their beauty and their e.x- 


On which we stand, the Abbot William 


cellence. 


lies, 


Abbot. That is indeed our boast. If 


Of blessed memory. 


you desire it, 


Prince Henry. And whose tomb is 


You shall behold these treasures. And 


that. 


meanwhile 


Which bears the brass escutcheon t 


Shall the Refectorarius bestow 


Abbot. A benefactor's. 


Your horses ar^ attendants for the night. 


Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood 




Godfather to our bells. 


{They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.) 


Prince Henry. Your monks are 
learned 


The Chapel. Vespers ; after which the 


monks retire, a chorister leading an ola 


And holy men, I trust. 


monk -who is blind. 


Abbot. There are among them 




Learned and holy men. Yet in this age 


Prince Henry. They are all gone, 


We need another Hildebrand, to shake 


save one who lingers. 


And purify us like a mighty wind. 


Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. 


The world is wicked, and sometimes I 


As if his heart could find no rest. 


wonder 


At times he beats his heaving breast 


God does not lose his patience with it 


With clenched and convulsive fingers, 


wholly. 


Then lifts them trembling in the air. 


And shatter it like glass ! Even here, at 


A chorister, with golden hair, 


times, 


Guides hitherward his heavy pace. 


Within these walls, where all should be 


Can it be so ? Or does my sight 


at peace. 


Deceive me in the uncertain light .' 


I have my trials. Time has laid his 


Ah no ! I recognize that face, 


hand 


Though Time has touched it in his flight, 


Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it. 


And changed the auburn hair to white. 


But as a harper lays his open palm 


It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, 


Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. 


The deadliest foe of all our race, 


Ashes are on my head, and on my lips 


And hateful unto me and mine ! 


Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness 


The Blind Monk. Who is it that doth 


And weariness of life, that makes me 


stand so near 


ready 


His whispered words I almost hear .' 


To say to the dead Abbots under us. 


Prince Henry. I am Prince Henry of 


" Make room for me ! " Only I see the 


Hoheneck. 


dusk 


And you, Count Hugo of the Rhine ! 


Of evening twilight coming, and have not 


I know you, and I see the scar. 


Completed half my task ; and so at times 


The brand upon your forehead, shine 


The thought of my shortcomings in this 


And redden like a baleful star ! 


life 


The Blind Monk. Count Hugo once, 


Falls like a shadow on the life to come. 


but now the wreck 



e6o 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 




Of what I was. O Hoheneck ! 
The passionate will, the pride, the wrath 
That bore me headlong on my path, 
Stumbled and staggered into fear, 
And failed me in my mad career, 
As a tired steed some evil-doer, 
Alone upon a desolate moor. 
Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, 
And hearing loud and close behind 
The o'ertaking steps of his pursuer. 
Then suddenly from the dark there came 
A voice that called me by my name, 
And said to me, " Kneel down and 

pray ! " 
And so my terror passed away. 
Passed utterly away forever. 
Contrition, penitence, remorse. 
Came on me, with o'erwhelming force ; 
A hope, a longing, an endeavor. 
By days of penance and nights of prayer, 
To frustrate and defeat despair ! 
Calm, deep, and still is now my heart. 



With tranquil waters overflowed ; 

A lake whose unseen fountains start. 

Where once the hot volcano glowed. 

And you, O Prince of Hoheneck ! 

Have known me in that earlier time, 

A man of violence and crime, 

Whose passions brooked no curb noi 

check. 
Behold me now, in gentler mood. 
One of this holy brotherhood. 
Give me your hand ; here let me kneel ; 
Make your reproaches sharp as steel ; 
Spurn me, and smite me on each 

cheek ; 
No violence can harm the meek, 
There is no wound Christ cannot heal ! 
Yes ; lift your princely hand, and take 
Revenge, if 't is revenge you seek ; 
Then pardon me, for Jesus' sake ! 

Prince Henry. Arise, Count Hugo I 

let there be 
No further strife nor enmity 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



261 



Between us twain ; we both have erred ! 
Too rash in act, too wroth in word. 
From the beginning have we stood 
In fierce, defiant attitude, 
Each thoughtless of the other's right, 
And each rehant on his might. 
But now our souls are more subdued ; 
The hand of God, and not in vain. 
Has touched us with the fire of pain. 
Let us kneel down, and side by side 
Pray, till our souls are purified. 
And pardon will not be denied ! 

( They kitccl. ) 



O ! quam sapidum in ore ! 
Dulce lingua vinculum ! 

Friar Cuthbert. I should think your 
tongue had broken its chain ! 

Friar Paul (sings). 

Feli.x venter quern intrabis ! 
Felix guttur quod rigabis ! 
Felix OS quod tu lavabis ! 
Et beata labia ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Peace ! I say, peace ! 
V\'\\} vou never cease ! 



~ir^:rr^j?- 




the Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monks at 
midnight. LUCIFER disguised as a 
Friar. 

Friar Paul (sings). 

Ave ! color vini clari, 
Dulcis potus, non amari, 
Tua nos inebriari 
Digneris pJbtentia ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Not so much noise, 
my worthy freres, 
Vou 'II disturb the Abbot at his prayers. 

Friar Paul (sings). 

O ! quam placens in colore ! 
O ! quam fragrans in odore ! 



You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you 

again ! 
Friar John. No danger ! to-night he 

will let us alone. 
As I happen to know he has guests 01 

his own. 
Friar Cuthbert. Who are they ? 
Friar John. A German Prince an>. 

his train. 
Who arrived here just before the rain. 
There is with him a damsel fair to 

see. 
As slender and graceful as a reed ! 
When she alighted from her steed, 
It seemed like a blossom blown from a 

tree. 



262 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Friar Cttthbert. None of your pale- 
faced girls for me ! 
None of your damsels of high degree ! 
Friar John. Come, old fellow, drink 
down to your peg ! 
But do not drink any farther, I beg ! 

Friar Paul {sings). 

In the days of gold. 
The days of old, 
Crosier of wood 
And bishop of gold ! 

Friar Cttthbert. What an infernal 
racket and riot ! 

Can you not drink your wine in quiet ? 

Why fill the convent with such scan- 
dals, 

As if we were so many drunken Vandals ? 

Friar Paul (continues). 

Now we have changed 
That law so good. 
To crosier of gold 
And bishop of wood ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Well, then, since you 
are in the mood 
To give your noisy humors vent. 
Sing and howl to your heart's content ! 

Chorus of Monks. 

Funde vinum, funde ! 
Tanquam sint fluminis undas. 
Nee quaeras unde, 
Sed fundas semper abunde ! 

Friar "John. What is the name of 
yonder friar, 
With an eye that glows like a coal of 

fire, 
And such a black mass of tangled 
hair ? 
Friar Paul. He who is sitting there. 
With a rollicking. 
Devil may care. 
Free-and-easy look and air, 
As if he were used to such feasting and 
frolicking ? 
Friar John. The same. 
Friar Paul. He 's a stranger. You 
had better ask his name. 
And where he is going, and whence he 
came. 



Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar ! 
Friar Paul. You must raise your 

voice a little higher. 
He does not seem to hear what you 

say. 
Now, try again ! He is looking this 

way. 
Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar, 
We wish to inquire 
Whence you came, and where you are 

going, 
And anything else that is worth the 

knowing. 
So be so good as to open your head. 
Lttcifer. I am a Frenchman born and 

bred. 
Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. 
My home 

Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, 
Of which, very like, you never have 

heard. 
Alonks. Never a word ! 
Lucifer. You must know, then, it is in 

the diocese 
Called the Diocese of Vannes, 
In the province of Brittany. 
From the gray rocks of Morbihan 
It overlooks the angry sea ; 
The very sea-shore where. 
In his great despair, 
Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, 
Filling the night with woe. 
And wailing aloud to the merciless seas 
The name of his sweet Heloise ! 
Whilst overhead 

The convent windows gleamed as red 
As the fiery eyes of the monks within, 
Who with jovial din 
Gave themselves up to all kinds of 

sin ! 
Ha ! that is a convent ! that is an ab- 
bey ! 
Over the doors. 
None of your death-heads carved in 

wood, 
None of your Saints looking^ pious and 

good. 
None of your Patriarchs old and shabby ! 
But the heads and tusks of boars, 
And the cells 

Hung all round with the fells 
Of the fallow-deer. 
And then what cheer ! 



THE GOLDEN' LEGEND. 



263 



What jolly, fat friars, 

Sitting round the great, roaring fires, 

Roaring louder than they. 

With their strong wines. 

And their concubines. 

And never a bell. 

With its swagger and swell. 

Calling you up with a start of affright 

In the dead of night. 

To send you grumbling down dark stairs, 

To mumble your prayers. 

But the cheery crow 

Of cocks in the yard below. 

After daybreak, an hour or so. 

And the barking of deep - mouthed 

hounds. 
These are the sounds 
That, instead of bells, salute the ear. 
And then all day 
Up and away 

Through the forest, hunting the deer ! 
Ah, my friends ! I 'm afraid that here 
You are a little too pious, a little too 

" tame. 
And the more is the shame. 
'T is the greatest folly 
Not to be jolly ; 
That 's what I think ! 
Come, drink, drink. 
Drink, and die game ! 

Monks. And your Abbot What 's-his- 
name ? 

Lucifer. Abelard ! 

Monks. Did he drink hard ? 

Lucifer. O no ! Not he ! 
He was a dry old fellow. 
Without juice enough to get thoroughly 

mellow. 
There he stood. 
Lowering at us in sullen mood, 
As if he had come into Brittany 
Just to reform our brotherhood ! 

(A roar of laughter.') 

But you see 

It never would do ! 

For some of us knew a thing or two. 

In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys ! 

For instance, the great ado 

With old Fulbert's niece, 

The young and lovely Heloise. 

Friar John. Stop there, if you please, 
Till we drink to the fair Heloise. 



All (drinking and shoittittg). Heloise ! 
Heloise ! 

( The Chapel-bell tolls.) 

Lucifer (starting). What is that bell 
for ? Are you such asses 

As to keep up the fashion of midnight 
masses ? 
Friar Cuthbert. It is only a poor, un- 
fortunate brother, 

Who is gifted with most miraculous 
powers 

Of getting up at all sorts of hours, 

And, by way of penance and Christian 
meekness, 

Of creeping silently out of his cell 

To take a pull at that hideous bell ; 

So that all the monks who are lying 
awake 

May murmur some kind of prayer for his 
sake. 

And adapted to his peculiar weakness ! 
Friar John. From frailty and fall — 
All. Good Lord, deliver us all ! 
Friar Cuthbert. And before the bell 
for matins sounds, 

He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds, 

Flashing it into our sleepy eyes. 

Merely to say it is time to arise. 

But enough of that. Go on, if you 
please. 

With your story al:)out St. Gildas de 
Rhuys. 
Lucifer. Well, it finally came to pass 

That, half in fun and half in malice, 

One Sunday at Mass 

We put some poison into the chalice. 

But, either by accident or design, 

Peter Abelard kept away 

From the chapel that day. 

And a poor, young friar, who in his stead 

Drank the sacramental wine. 

Fell on the steps of the altar, dead ! 

But look ! do you see at the window there 

That face, with a look of grief and de- 
spair. 

That ghastly face, as of one in pain ? 
Monks. Who ? where ? 
Lucifer. As I spoke, it vanished away 

again. 
Friar Cuthbert. It is that nefarious 

Siebald the Refectorarius. 

That fellow is always playing the scout, 



264 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 


Creeping and peeping and prowling 


He seems to have taken you by sur- 


about ; 


prise. 


And then he regales 


Friar Francis. Hide the great flagon 


The Abbot with scandalous tales. 


From the eyes of the dragon ! 


Lticifer. A spy in the convent ? One 


Friar Cuthbert. Pull the brown hood 


of the brothers 


over your face ! 


Telling scandalous tales of the others ? 


This will bring us into disgrace ! 


Out upon him, the lazy loon ! 


Abbot. What means this revel and 


I would put a stop to that pretty soon, 


carouse ? 


In a way he should rue it. 


Is this a tavern and drinking-house .'' 


Mojiks. How shall we do it ? 


Are you Christian monks, or heathen 


Lucifer. Do you, Brother Paul, 


devils. 


Creep under the window, close to the 


To pollute this convent with your revels .' 


wall, 


Were Peter Damian still upon earth. 


And open it suddenly when I call. 


To be shocked by such ungodly mirth, 


Then seize the villain by the hair, 


He would write your names, with pen of 


And hold him there, 


gall, 


And punish him soundly, once for all. 


In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all ! 


Friar Oithbert. As St. Dunstan of old, 


Away, you drunkards ! to your cells. 


We are told. 


And pray till you hear the matin-bells ; 


Once caught the Devil by the nose ! 


You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother 


Lucifer. Ha ! ha ! that story is veiy 


Paul ! 


clever. 


And as a penance mark each prayer 


But has no foundation whatsoever. 


With the scourge upon your shoulders 


Quick ! for I see his face again 


bare ; 


Glaring in at the window-pane ; 


Nothing atones for such a sin 


Now ! now ! and do not spare your 


But the blood that follows the discipline. 


blows. 


And you. Brother Cuthbert, come with 


(Friar Paul opens the ivindozv suddenly, 


me 
Alone into the sacristy ; 


and seizes Siebald. T/tey beat him.) 


You, who should be a guide to your 


Friar Siebald. Help ! help ! are you 


brothers, 


going to slay me ? 


And are ten times worse than all the 


Friar Paul. That will teach you again 


others. 


to betray me ! 


For you I 've a draught that has long 


Friar Siebald. Mercy ! mercy ! 


been brewing. 




You shall do a penance worth the doing ! 


Friar Paul {shouting and beating). 


Away to your prayers, then, one and all ! 


Rumpas bellorum lorum, 


I wonder the very convent wall 


Vim confer amorum 


Does not crumble and crush you in its 


Morum verorum rorum 


fall ! 


Tu plena polorum ! 


The neighboring Nunnery. The ABBESS 




Irmingard sitting with Elsie in the 


Lucifer. Who stands in the doorway 
yonder. 


moonlight. 


Stretching out his trembling hand, 


Irmingard. The night is silent, the 


fust as Abelard used to stand. 


wind is still. 


The flash of his keen, black eyes 


The moon is looking from yonder hill 


Forerunning the thunder .-' 


Down upon convent, and grove, and 


The Monks (in confusioii). The Ab- 


garden ; 


bot ! the Abbot ! 


The clouds have passed away from her 


Friar Cuthbert. And what is the won- 


face. 


der ! 


Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



265 



Only the tender and quiet grace 
Of one, whose heart has been healed 
with pardon ! 

And such am I. My soul within 

Was dark with passion and soiled with 

sin. 
But now its wounds are healed again ; 
Gone are the anguish, the terror, and 

pain ; 



As thou sittest in the moonlight there, 
Its glory flooding thy golden hair. 
And the only darkness that which lies 
In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, 
I feel my soul drawn unto thee, 
Strangely, and strongly, and more and 

more. 
As to one I have known and loved be- 
fore ; 
F'or every s;)iil is akin to me 




For across that desolate land of woe, 
O'er whose burning sands I was forced 

to go, 
A wind from heaven began to blow ; 
And all my being trembled and shook, 
As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of 

the field. 
And I was healed, as the sick are healed. 
When fanned by the leaves of the Holy 

Book ! 



That dwells in the land of mystery ! 
I am the Lady Irmingard, 
Born of a noble race and name ! 
Many a wandering Suabian bard, 
Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and 

hard. 
Has found through m*e the way to fame. 
Brief and bright were those days, and tiie 

night 
Which followed was full of a lurid light. 



266 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Love, that of every woman's heart 
Will have the whole, and not a part, 
That is to her, in Nature's plan. 
More than ambition is to man, 



Of shadows o'er the landscape trail- 
ing. 
Yielding and borne I knew not where. 
But feeling resistance unavailing. 




Her light, her life, her very breath. 
With no alternative but death. 
Found me a maiden soft and young. 
Just from the convent's cloistered school, 
And seated on my lowly stool. 
Attentive while the minstrels sung. 

Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, 

Fairest, noblest, best of all, 

Was Walter of the Vogelweid ; 

And, whatsoever may betide. 

Still I think of him with pride ! 

His song was of the summer-time. 

The very birds sang in his rhyme ; 

The sunshine, the delicious air. 

The fragrance of the flowers, were there ; 

And I grew restless as I heard, 

Restless and buoyant as a bird, 

Down soft, aerial currents sailing, 

O'er blossomed orchards, and fields in 

bloom. 
And through the momentary gloom 



And tiui<, Li i.i.K.ccd .iiitl apart. 
And more l)y accident than choice, 
I listened to that single voice 
Until the chambers of my heart 
Were filled with it by night and day. 
One night, — it was a night in May, — 
Within the garden, unawares. 
Under the blossoms in the gloom, 
I heard it utter my own name 
With protestations and wild ])rayers ; 
And it rang through me, and became 
Like the archangel's trump of doom, 
Which the soul hears, and must obey ; 
And mine arose as from a tomb. 
My former life now seemed to me 
Such as hereafter death may be, 
When in the great Eternity 
We shall awake and find it day. 

It was a dream, and would not stay ; 
A dream, that in a single night 
Faded and vanished out of sight. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



267 



My father's anger followed fast 
This passion, as a freshening blast 
Seeks out and fans the fire, whose 

rage 
It may increase, but not assuage. 
And he exclaimed : " No wandering bard 
Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard ! 
For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck 
By messenger and letter sues." 



That follows with such dread certainty ; 
" This, or the cloister and the veil ! " 
No other words than these he said, 
But they were like a funeral wail ; 
My life was ended, my heart was dead. 

That night from the castle-gate went 

down, 
With silent, slow, and stealthy pace. 




c~^25 .-..,^-'^^-' 



Gently, but firmly, I replied : 
" Henry of Hoheneck I discard ! 
Never the hand of Irmingard 
Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride ! " 
This said I, Walter, for thy sake ; 
This said I, for I could not choose. 
After a pause, my father spake 
In that cold and deliberate tone 
Which turns the hearer into stone, 
And seems itself the act to be 



Two shadows, mounted on shadowy 

steeds. 
Taking the narrow path that leads 
Into the forest dense and brown. 
In the leafy darkness of the place. 
One could not distinguish form nor face, 
Only a bulk without a shape, 
A darker shadow in the shade ; 
One scarce could say it moved or stayed 
Thus it was we made our escape ! 



268 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



A foaming brook, with many a bound, 
Followed us like a playful hound ; 
Then leaped before us, and in the hollow 
Paused, and waited for us to follow. 
And seemed impatient, and afraid 
That our tardy flight should be betrayed 
By the sound our horses' hoof-beats 

made. 
And when we reached the plain below, 
We paused a moment and drew rein 
To look back at the castle again ; 
And we saw the windows all aglow 
With lights, that were passing to and fro ; 
Our hearts with terror ceased to beat ; 
The brook crept silent to our feet ; 
We knew what most we feared to know. 
Then suddenly horns began to blow ; 
And we heard a shout, and a heavy 

tramp. 
And our horses snorted in the damp 
Night-air of the meadows green and wide. 
And in a moment, side by side. 
So close, they must have seemed but one. 
The shadows across the moonlight run. 
And another came, and swept behind. 
Like the shadow of clouds before the 

wind ! 

How I remember that breathless flight 
Across the moors, in the summer night ! 
How under our feet the long, white road 
Backward like a river flowed. 
Sweeping with it fences and hedges, 
Whilst farther away, and overhead, 
Paler than I, with fear and dread, 
The moon fled with us, as we fled 
Along the forest's jagged edges ! 

All this I can remember well ; 

But of what afterwards befell 

I nothing further can recall 

Then a blind, desperate, headlong fall ; 

The rest is a blank and darkness all. 

When I awoke out of this swoon. 

The sun was shining, not the moon. 

Making a cross upon the wall 

With the bars of my windows narrow 

and tall ; 
And I prayed to it, as I had been wont 

to pray, 
From early childhood, day by day. 
Each morning, as in bed I lay ! 
I was lying again in my own room ! 



And I thanked God, in my fever and 

pain, 
That those shadows on the midnight 

plain 
Were gone, and could not come again ! 
I struggled no longer with my doom ! 

This happened many years ago. 
I left my father's home to come 
Like Catherine to her martyrdom, 
For blindly I esteemed it so. 
And when I heard the convent door 
Behind me close, to ope no more, 
I felt it smite me like a blow. 
Through all my limbs a shudder ran, 
And on my bruised spirit fell 
The dampness of my narrow cell 
As night-air on a wounded man, 
Giving intolerable pain. 

But now a better life began. 

I felt the agony decrease 

By slow degrees, then wholly cease, 

Ending in perfect rest and peace ! 

It was not apathy, nor dulness, 

That weighed and puessed upon my brain. 

But the same passion I had given 

To earth before, now turned to heaven 

With all its overflowing fulness. 

Alas ! the world is full of peril ! 

The path that runs through the fairest 

meads. 
On the sunniest side of the valley, leads 
Into a region bleak and sterile ! 
Alike in the high-born and the lowly, 
The will is feeble, and passion strong. 
We cannot sever right from wrong ; 
Some falsehood mingles with all truth ; 
Nor is it strange the heart of youth 
Should waver and comprehend but 

slowly 
The things that are holy and unholy ! 
But in this sacred, calm retreat, 
We are all well and safely shielded 
From winds that blow, and waves that 

beat, 
From the cold, and rain, and blighting 

heat. 
To which the strongest hearts have 

yielded. 
Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, 
For our celestial bridegA)om yearning ; 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



269 



Our hearts are lamps forever burning, 
With a steady and unwavering flame, 
Pointing upward, forever the same. 
Steadily upward toward the heaven ! 

The moon is hidden behind a cloud ; 

A sudden darkness fills the room. 

And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, 

Shine like jewels in a shroud. 

On the leaves is a sound of falling rain ; 

A bird, awakened in its nest. 

Gives a faint twitter of unrest, 

rhen smooths its plumes and sleeps 

again. 
No other sounds than these I hear ; 
The hour of midnight must be near. 
Thou art o'erspent with the day's fatigue 
Of riding many a dusty league ; 
Sink, then, gently to thy slumber ; 
Me so many cares encumber. 
So many ghosts, and forms of fright, 
Have started from their graves to-night. 
They have driven sleep from mine eyes 

away : 
I will go down to the chapel and pray. 

V. 

A covered bridge at Lucerne. 

Prince Henry. God's blessing on the 
architects who build 
The bridges o'er swift rivers and abysses 
Before impassable to human feet. 
No less than on the builders of cathe- 
drals. 
Whose massive walls are bridges thrown 

across 
The dark and terrible abyss of Death. 
Well has the name of Pontifex been 

given 
Unto the Church's head, as the chief 

builder 
And architect of the invisible bridge 
That leads from earth to heaven. 

Elsie. How dark it grows ! 

What are these paintings on the walls 
around us ? 
Prince Henry. The Dance Macaber ! 
Elsie. What > 

Prince Henry. The Dance of Death ! 
All that go to and fro must look upon it. 
Mindful of what they shall be, while be- 
neath, 



Among the wooden piles, the turbulent 

river 
Rushes, impetuous as the river of life. 
With dimpling eddies, ever green and 

bright. 
Save where the shadow of this bridge 
falls on it, 
Elsie. O yes ! I see it now ! 
Prince Henry. The grim musician 
Leads all men through the mazes of that 

dance. 
To different sounds in different measures 

moving ; 
Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a 

drum, 
To tempt or terrify. 

Elsie. What is this picture ? 

Prince Henry. It is a young man 
singing to a nun. 
Who kneels at her devotions, but in 

kneeling 
Turns round to look at him ; and Death, 

meanwhile, 
Is putting out the candles on the altar ! 
Elsie. Ah, what a pity 'tis that she 
should listen 
Unto such songs, when in her orisons 
She might have heard in heaven the 
angels singing ! 
Prince Henry. Here he has stolen a 
jester's cap and bells. 
And dances with the Queen. 

Elsie. A foolish jest ! 

Prince Henry. And here the heart of 
the new-wedded wife, 
Coming from church with her beloved 

lord, 
He startles with the rattle of his drum. 
Elsie. Ah, that is sad ! And yet 
perhaps 't is best 
That she should die, with all the sun- 
shine on her. 
And all the benedictions of the morning, 
Before this afiliuence of golden light 
Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray. 
Then into darkness ! 

Prince Henry. Under it is written, 
" Nothing but death shall separate thee 
and me ! " 
Elsie. And what is this, that follows 

close upon it .'' 
Prince Henry. Death, playing on a 
dulcimer. Behind him, 



270 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



A poor old woman, with a rosary, 


That life, and all that speaks of life, is 


Follows the sound, and seems to wish 


lovely. 


her feet 


And death, and all that speaks of death. 


Were swifter to o'ertake him. Under- 


is hateful. 


neath, 


Elsie. The grave itself is but a cov- 


The inscription reads, " Better is Death 


ered bridge. 


than Life." 


Leading from light to light, through a 


Elsie. Better is Death than Life ! 


brief darkness ! 


Ah yes ! to thousands 


Prince Henry [emerging from the 


Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings 


bridge). I breathe again more 


That song of consolation, till the air 


freely ! Ah, how pleasant 


Rings with it, and they cannot choose 


To come once more into the light of 


but follow 


day, 



^•'C'*** 
^a*-". 




Whither he leads. And not 
alone, 

But the young also hear it, and are still. 
Prince Henry. Yes, in their sadder 
moments. 'T is the sound 

Of their own hearts they hear, half full 
of tears, 

Which are like crystal cups, half filled 
with water, 

Responding to the pressure of a finger 

With music sweet and low and melan- 
choly. 

Let us go forward, and no longer stay 

In this great picture-gallery of Death ! 

I hate it ! ay, the very thought of it ! 
Elsie. Why is it hateful to you ? 
Prince Henry. For the reason 



Out of that shadow of death ! To hear 



agam 
The hoof-beats of our horses on firm 

ground, 
And not upon those hollow planks, re- 
sounding 
With a sepulchral echo, like the clods 
On coffins in a churchyard ! Yonder lies 
The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, 

apparelled 
In light, and lingering, like a village 

maiden. 
Hid in the bosom of her native moun- 
tains. 
Then pouring all her life into another's, 
Changing her name and being ! Over- 
head, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEXD. 



271 




Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air, 
Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines. 

{They pass on.) 

The DeviPs Bridge. Prince Henry 
and Elsie crossing, with attendants. 

Guide. This bridge is called the 
Devil's Bridge. 
With a single arch, from ridge to ridge, 
It leaps across the terrible chasm 
Yawning beneath us, Black and deep. 
As if, in some convulsive spasm. 
The summits of the hills had cracked. 
And made a road for the cataract. 
That raves and rages down the steep ! 

Lucifer {under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 



Guide. Never any bridge but this 
Could stand across the wild abyss ; 
All the rest, of wood or stone. 
By the Devil's hand were overthrown. 
He toppled crags from the precipice. 
And whatsoe'er was built by day 
In the night was swept away ; 
None could stand but this alone. 

Lucifer {under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 

Guide. I showed you in the valley a 
boulder 
Marked with the imprint of his shoulder ; 
As he was bearing it uj) this way, 
A peasant, passing, cried, " Herr Je ! " 
And the 1 )evil dropped it in his fright, 
And vanished suddenly out of sight ! 

Lucifer {under the b-idge). I la ! ha ' 



272 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Guide. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, 


Guide. At length, the bridge being all 


For pilgrims on their way to Rome, 


completed, 


Built this at last, with a single arch, 


The Abbot, standing at its head, 


Under which, on its endless march, 


Threw across it a loaf of bread, 


Runs the river, white with foam. 


Which a hungry dog sprang after. 


Like a thread through the eye of a nee- 


And the rocks re-echoed with the peals 


dle. 


of laughter 


And the Devil promised to let it stand. 


To see the Devil thus defeated ! 


Under compact and condition 

That the first living thing which crossed 


(They pass on.) 


Should be surrendered into his hand. 


Lucifer [under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! 


And be beyond redemption lost. 


defeated ! 


Lucifer {under the l>rid>^e). Ha ! ha ! 


For journeys and for crimes like this 


perdition ! 


I let the bridge stand o'er the abyss ! 



The St. Gotliard Pass. 

Prince Henry. This is the highest point, 
ways the rivers 
Leap down to different seas, and as they roll 




THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



273 



Grow deep and still, and their majestic 

presence 
Becomes a benefaction to the towns 
They visit, wandering silently among 

them. 
Like patriarchs old among their shining 

tents. 



Bear thee across these chasms and 

precipices, 
Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against 

a stone ! 
Elsie. Would I were borne unto my 

grave, as she was, 
Upon angelic shoulders ! Even now 




Elsie. How bleak and bare it is ! 
Nothing but mosses 
Grow on these rocks. 
Prince Henry. Yet are they not for- 
gotten ; 
Beneficent Nature sends the mists to 
feed them. 
Elsie. See yonder little cloud, that, 
borne aloft 
So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away 
Over the snowy peaks ! It seems to me 
The body of St. Catherine, borne by 
angels ! 
Prince Henry. Thou art St. Cath- 
erine, and invisible angels 
18 



I seem uplifted by them, light as air ! 
What sound is that ? 

Prince Henry. The tumbling ava- 
lanches ! 
Elsie. How awful, yet how beautiful ! 
Prince Henry. These are 

The voices of the mountains ! Thus they 

ope 
Their snowy lips, and speak unto each 

other. 
In the primeval language, lost to man. 
Elsie. What land is this that spreads 

itself beneath us ? 
Prince Henry. Italy ! Italy ! 
Elsie. Land of the .Madonna ! 



274 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



How beautiful it is ! It seems a garden 
Of Paradise ! 

Prince Henry. Nay, of Gethsemane 
To thee and me, of passion and of 

prayer ! 
Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago 
I wandered as a youth among its bowers, 
And never from my heart has faded quite 
Its memory, that, like a summer sunset. 
Encircles with a ring of purple light 
All the horizon of my youth. 

Guide. O friends ! 

The days are short, the way before us 

long; 
We must not linger, if we think to reach 
The inn at Belinzona before vespers ! 

[They pass on.) 

At the foot of the Alps. A halt Jinder the 
trees at noon. 

Prince Henry. Here let us pause a 

moment in the trembling 
Shadow and sunshine of the roadside 

trees. 
And, our tired horses in a group as- 
sembling, 
Inhale long draughts of this delicious 

breeze. 
Our fleeter steeds have distanced our 

attendants ; 
They lag behind us with a slower pace ; 
We will await them under the green 

pendants 
Of the great willows in this shady place. 
Ho, Barbarossa ! how thy mottled 

haunches 
Sweat with this canter over hill and glade ! 
Stand still, and let these overhanging 

branches 
Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with 

shade ! 
Elsie. What a delightful landscape 

spreads before us, 
Marked with a whitewashed cottage here 

and there ! 
And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o'er 

us. 
Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny 

air. 
Pritice Henry. Hark ! what sweet 

sounds are those, whose accents 

holv 



Fill the warm noon with music sad and 
sweet ! 
Elsie. It is a band of pilgrims, mov- 
ing slowly 

On their long journey, with uncovered 
feet. 

Pilgrims [chanting the Hymn of St. 
Hildebert). 

Me receptet Sion ilia, 
Sion David, urbs tranquilla, 
Cujus faber auctor lucis, 
Cujus portae lignum crucis, 
Cujus claves lingua Petri, 
Cujus cives semper laeti, 
Cujus muri lapis vivus, 
Cujus custos Rex festivus ! 

Lticifer (as a Friar in the procession). 

Here am I, too, in the pious band, 
In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite 

dressed ! 
The soles of my feet are as hard and 

tanned 
As the conscience of old Pope Hilde- 

brand, 
The Holy Satan, who made the wives 
Of the bishops lead such shameful lives. 
All day long I beat my breast, 
And chant with a most particular zest 
The Latin hymns, which I understand 
Quite as well, I think, as the rest. 
And at night such lodging in barns and 

sheds. 
Such a hurly-burly in country inns. 
Such a clatter of tongues in empty heads, 
Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins ! 
Of all the contrivances of the time 
For sowing broadcast the seeds of crime, 
There is none so pleasing to me and 

mine 
As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine ! 
Prince LLen7y. If from the outward 

man we judge the inner, 
And cleanliness is godliness, I fear 
A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sinner, 
Must be that Carmelite now passing near 
Lncifer. There is my German Princ* 

again. 
Thus far on his journey to Salem, 
And the lovesick girl, whose heated brai» 
Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain ; 
But it 's a lonsr road that has no turn ! 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



275 



Let them quietly hold their way, 
I have also a part in the play. 
But first I must act to my heart's con- 
tent 
This mummery and this merriment, 
And drive this motley flock of sheei) 
Into the fold, where drink and sleep 
The jolly old friars of Benevent. 
Of a truth, it often provokes me to 

laugh 
To see these beggars hobble along, 

Pilgrims {chanting). 

In hac urbe, lux solennis, 
Ver ceternum, pax perennis : 
In hac odor implens caclos. 
In hic semper festum melos 

Putue Htnry Do }ou observe 
that monk imong the trim 
Who pouis liom his gicit throit 
the 1 oiling biss, 



Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaft'. 
Chanting their wonderful pifl'and paff, 
And, to make up for not understanding 

the song, 
Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong ! 
Were it not for my magic garters and 

staff", 
And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff". 
And the mischief I make in the idle 

throng, 
I should not continue the business long. 




276 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, 
And this way turns his rubicund, round 

face ? 
Elsie. It is the same who, on tlie 

Strasburg square, 
Preached to the people in the open air. 
Prince Henry. And he has crossed 

o'er mountain, field, and fell, 
On that good steed, that seems to bear 

him well. 
The hackney of the Friars of Orders 

Gray, 
His own stout legs ! He, too, was in 

the play. 
Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. 
Good morrow. Friar ! 

Friar Cuthbert. Good morrow, noble 

sir ! 
Prince Henry. I speak in German, 

for, unless I err. 
You are a German. 

Friar Cuthbert. I cannot gainsay you. 
But by what instinct, or what secret sign, 
Meeting me here, do you straightway 

divine 
That northward of the Alps my country 

lies .'' 
Prince Henry. Your accent, like St. 

Peter's, would betray you, 
Did not your yellow beard and your blue 

eyes. 
Moreover, we have seen your face before. 
And heard you preach at the Cathedral 

door 
On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg 

square. 
We were among the crowd that gathered 

there, 
And saw you play the Rabbi with great 

skill. 
As if, by leaning o'er so many years 
To walk with little children, your own 

will 
Had caught a childish attitude from 

theirs, 
A kind of stooping in its form and gait, 
And could no longer stand erect and 

straight. 
Whence come you now ? 
Friar Cuthbert. From the old mon- 
astery 
Of Hirschau, in the forest ; being sent 
Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, 



To see the image of the Virgin Mary, 
That moves its holy eyes, and sometimes 

speaks. 
And lets the piteous tears run down its 

cheeks, 
To touch the hearts of the impenitent. 
Prince Henry. O, had I faith, as in 
the days gone by, 
That knew no doubt, and feared no mys- 
tery ! 
Lucifer (at a distance). Ho, Cuthbert ! 

Friar Cuthbert ! 
Friar Cuthbert. Farewell, Prince ! 
I cannot stay to argue and convince. 
Prince Henry. This is indeed the 
blessed Mary's land. 
Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer ! 
All hearts are touched and softened at 

her name ; 
Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand. 
The priest, the prince, the scholar, and 

the peasant. 
The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, 
Pay homage to her as one ever present ! 
And even as children, who have much 

offended 
A too indulgent father, in great shame, 
Penitent, and yet not daring unattended 
To go into his presence, at the gate 
Speak with their sister, and confiding 

wait 
Till she goes in before and intercedes ; 
So men, repenting of their evil deeds, 
And yet not venturing rashly to draw 

near 
With their requests an angry father's ear. 
Offer to her their prayers and their con- 
fession. 
And she for them in heaven makes inter- 
cession. 
And if our Faith had given us nothing 

more 
Than this example of all womanhood. 
So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good, 
So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure. 
This were enough to prove it higher and 

truer 
Than all the creeds the world had known 
before. 

Pilgrims [chanting afar off). 

Urbs coelestis, urbs beata, 
Supra petram collocata. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



277 



Urbs in portu satis tuto 
De longinquo te saluto, 
Te saluto, te suspiro, 
Te affecto, te requiro ! 

The Inn at Genoa. A terrace overlooking 
the sea. Night. 

Prince Henry. It is the sea, it is the 
sea, 
In all its vague immensity. 
Fading and darkening in the distance ! 



And they depart, and come no more. 
Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. 

Above the darksome sea of death 
Looms the great life that is to be, 
A land of cloud and mystery, 
A dim mirage, with shapes of men 
Long dead, and passed beyond our ken. 
Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our breath 
Till the fair pageant vanisheth. 
Leaving us in perplexity, 




Silent, majestical, and slow, 
The white ships haunt it to and fro, 
With all their ghostly sails unfurled. 
As phantoms from another world 
Haunt the dim confines of existence ! 
But ah ! how few can comprehend 
Their signals, or to what good end 
From land to land they come and go ! 
Upon a sea more vast and dark 
The spirits of the dead embark, 
All voyaging to unknown coasts. 
We wave our farewells from the shore, 



Thou 



And doubtful whether it has been 
A vision of the world unseen. 
Or a bright image of our own 
Against the sky in vapors thrown. 
Lucifer (singing from the sea). 

didst not make it, thou canst not 

mend it. 
But thou hast the power to end it ! 
The sea is silent, the sea is discreet. 
Deep it lies at thy very feet ; 
There is no confessor like unto Death ! 
Thou canst not sec him, but he is near ; 



278 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Thou needest not whisper above thy 

breath, 
And he will hear ; 
He will answer the questions, 
The vague surmises and suggestions, 
That fill thy soul with doubt and fear ! 
Prince Hoiry. The fisherman, who 

lies afloat, 
With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, 
Is singing softly to the Night ! 
But do I comprehend aright 
The meaning of the words he sung 
So sweetly in his native tongue ? 
Ah yes ! the sea is still and deep. 
All things within its bosom sleep ! 
A single step, and all is o'er ; 
A plunge, a bubble, and no more ; 
And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free 
From martyrdom and agony. 

Elsie (coining from her chamber upon 

the terrace). The night is calm 

and cloudless, 
And still as still can be, 
And the stars come forth to listen 
To the music of the sea. 
They gather, and gather, and gather. 
Until they crowd the sky, 
And listen, in breathless silence, 
To the solemn litany. 
It begins in rocky caverns. 
As a voice that chants alone 
To the pedals of the organ 
In monotonous undertone ; 
And anon from shelving beaches, 
And shallow sands beyond. 
In snow-white robes uprising 
The ghostly choirs respond. 
And sadly and unceasing 
The mournful voice sings on. 
And the snow-white choirs still answer 
Christe eleison ! 

Prince Henry. Angel of God ! thy 

finer sense perceives 
Celestial and perpetual harmonies ! 
Thy purer soul, that trembles and be- 
lieves. 
Hears the archangel's trumpet in the 

breeze. 
And where the forest rolls, or ocean 

heaves, 
Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, 
And tongues of prophets speaking in the 

leaves. 



But I hear discord only and despair. 
And whispers as of demons in the air ! 

At sea. 

II Padrone. The wind upon our 
quarter lies. 
And on before the freshening gale. 
That fills the snow-white lateen sail. 
Swiftly our light felucca flies. 
Around, the billows burst and foam ; 
They lift her o'er the sunken rock. 
They beat her sides with many a shock. 
And then upon their flowing dome 
They poise her, like a weathercock ! 
Between us and the western skies 
The hills of Corsica arise ; 
Eastward, in yonder long, blue line. 
The summits of the Apennine, 
And southward, and still far away, 
Salerno, on its sunny bay. 
You cannot see it, where it lies. 

Prince Henry. Ah, would that never- 
more mine eyes 
Might see its towers by night or day ! 

Elsie. Behind us, dark and awfully. 
There comes a cloud out of the sea. 
That bears the form of a hunted deer. 
With hide of brown, and hoofs of black. 
And antlers laid upon its back, 
And fleeing fast and wild with fear, 
As if the hounds were on its track ! 
Prince Henry. Lo ! while we gaze, it 
breaks and falls 
In shapeless masses, like the walls 
Of a burnt city. Broad and red 
The fires of the descending sun 
Glare through the windows, and o'er- 

head. 
Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, 
Long shafts of silvery light arise, 
Like rafters that support the skies ! 
Elsie. See ! from its summit the lurid 
levin 
Flashes downward without warning. 
As Lucifer, son of the morning. 
Fell from the battlements of heaven ! 
// Padrone. I must entreat you, 
friends, below ! 
The angry storm begins to blow. 
For the weather changes with the moon. 
All this morning, until noon, 
We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws 
Struck the sea with their cat's-paws. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



2iq 




Only a little hour ago 

I was whistling to Saint Antonio 

For a capful of wind to fill our sail, 

And instead of a breeze he has sent a 

gale. 
Last night I saw Saint Elmo's stars, 
With their glimmering lanterns, all at 

play 



On the tops of the masts and the tips of 

the spars. 
And I knew we should have foul weather 

to-day. 
Cheerly, my hearties ! yo heave ho ! 
Brail up the mainsail, and let her 

go 
As the winds will and Saint Antonio ! 




2 So 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Do you see that Livornese felucca, 
That vessel to the windward yonder, 
Running with her gunwale under ? 
I was looking when the wind o'ertook 

her. 
She had all sail set, and the only wonder 
Is, that at once the strength of the blast 
Did not carry away her mast. 
She is a galley of the Gran Duca, 
That, through the fear of the Algerines, 
Convoys those lazy brigantines, 
Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. 



And there is no danger of bank oi 

breaker. 
With the breeze behind us, on we go ; 
Not too much, good Saint Antonio ! 

VI. 

The School of Salerno. A travelling 
Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate 
of the College. 

Scholastic, There, that is my gaunt- 
let, my banner, my shield, 




Now all is ready, high and low ; 
Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio ! 

Ha ! that is the first dash of the rain, 
With a sprinkle of spray above the 

rails. 
Just enough to moisten our sails. 
And make them ready for the strain. 
See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake 

her, 
And speeds away with a bone in her 

mouth ! 
Now keep her head toward the south, 



Hung up as a challenge to all the field ! 

One hundred and twenty-five proposi- 
tions, 

Which I will maintain with the sword of 
the tongue 

Against all disputants, old and young. 

Let us see if doctors or dialecticians 

Will dare to dispute my definitions, 

Or attack any one of my learned theses. 

Here stand I ; the end shall be as God 
pleases. 

I think I have proved, by profound 
researches, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



2S1 



The error of all those doctrines so 
vicious 

Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, 

That are making such terrible work in 
the churches, 

By Michael the Stammerer sent from the 
East, 

And done into Latin by that Scottish 
beast, 

Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to 
maintain. 

In the face of the truth, the error in- 
fernal, 

That the universe is and must be eter- 
nal ; 

At first laying down, as a fact funda- 
mental, 

That nothing with God can be acci- 
dental ; 

Then asserting that God before the 
creation 

Could not have existed, because it is 
plain 

That, had he existed, he would have 
created ; 

Which is begging the question that 
should be debated, 

And moveth me less to anger than 
laughter. 

All nature, he holds, is a respiration 

Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, 
hereafter 

Will inhale it into his bosom again. 

So that nothing but God alone will 
remain. 

And therein he contradicteth himself; 

For he opens the whole discussion by 
stating, , 

That God can only exist in creating. 

That question I think I have laid on the 
shelf! 

{He goes out. Two Doctors come in dis- 
puting, and follotved by pupils.) 

Doctor Serafino. I, with the Doctor 
Seraphic, maintain. 
That a word which is only conceived in 

the brain 
Is a type of eternal Generation ; 
The spoken word is the Incarnation, 
Doctor Cherubino What do I care for 
the Doctor Seraphic, 
With all his wordy chaffer and traffic ? 



Doctor Serafino. You make but a 
paltry show of resistance ; 
Universals have no real existence ! 

Doctor Cherubino. Your words are but 
idle and empty chatter ; 
Ideas are eternally joined to matter ! 
Doctor Serafino, May the Lord have 
mercy on your position. 
You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs ! 
Doctor Cherubino. May he send your 
soul to eternal perdition, 
For your Treatise on the Irregulai 
Verbs ! 

( They rush out fighting. Two Scholars 
come in.) 

First Scholar. Monte Cassino, then, is 
your College. 

What think you of ours here at Salern .' 
Second Scholar. To tell the truth, I 
arrived so lately, 

I hardly yet have had time to discern. 

So much, at least, I am bound to ac- 
knowledge : 

The air seems healthy, the buildings 
stately. 

And on the whole I like it greatly. 

First Scholar. Yes, the air is sweet ; 
the Calabrian hills 

Send us down puffs of mountain air ; 

And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills 

With its coolness cloister and court and 
square. 

Then at every season of the year 

There are -crowds of guests and travellers 
here ; 

Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and 
traders 

From the Levant, with figs and wine, 

And bands of wounded and sick Cru- 
saders, 

Coming back from Palestine. 

Second Scholar. And what are the 
studies you pursue ? 

What is the course you here go through ? 
First Scholar. The first three years of 
the college course 

Are given to Logic alone, as the source 

Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. 
Second Scholar. That seems rather 
strange, I must confess, 

In a. Medical School ; yet, nevertheless. 

You doubtless have reasons for that. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



First Scholar. O yes ! 

For none but a clever dialectician 
Can hope to become a great physician ; 
That has been settled long ago. 
Logic makes an important part 
Of the mystery of the healing art ; 
For without it how could you hope to 

show 
That nobody knows so much as you 

know ? 
After this there are five years more 
Devoted wholly to medicine, 
With lectures on chirurgical lore, 
And dissections of the bodies of swine. 
As likest the human form divine. 

Second Scholar. What are the books 

now most in vogue ? 
First Scholar. Quite an extensive 

catalogue ; 
Mostly, however, books of our own ; 
As Gariopontus' Passionarius, 
And the writings of Matthew Platearius ; 
And a volume universally known 
As the Regimen of the School of Salem, 
For Robert of Normandy written in terse 
And very elegant Latin verse. 
Each of these writings has its turn. 
And when at length we have finished 

these, 
Then comes the struggle for degrees, 
With all the oldest and ablest critics ; 
The public thesis and disputation. 
Question, and answer, and explanation 
Of a passage out of Hippocrates, 
Or Aristotle's Analytics. 
There the triumphant Magister stands ! 
A book is solemnly placed in his hands, 
On which he swears to follow the rule 
And ancient forms of the good old School ; 
To report if any confectionarius 
Mingles his drugs with matters various. 
And to visit his patients twice a day, 
And once in the night, if they live in 

town, 
And if they are poor, to take no pay. 
Having faithfully promised these, 
His head is crowned with a laurel crown ; 
A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand. 
The Magister Artium et Physices 
Goes forth from the school like a lord of 

the land. 
And now, as we have the whole morning 

before us. 



Let us go in, if you make no objection, 
And listen awhile to a learned prelection- 
On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. 

{They go in. Enter LUCIFER as a 
Doctor.) 

Lucifer. This is the great School of 
Salern ! 
A land of wrangling and of quarrels. 
Of brains that seethe, and hearts that 

bum, 
Where every emulous scholar hears, 
In every breath that comes to his ears. 
The rustling of another's laurels ! 
The air of the place is called salubrious ; 
The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it 
An odor volcanic, that rather mends it. 
And the buildings have an aspect lugu- 
brious. 
That inspires a feeling of awe and terror 
Into the heart of the beholder, 
And befits such an ancient homestead of 

error, 
Where the old falsehoods moulder and' 

smoulder. 
And yearly by many hundred hands 
Are carried away, in the zeal of youth. 
And sown like tares in the field of truth. 
To blossom and ripen in other lands. 

What have we here, affixed to the gate ^ 
The challenge of some scholastic wight. 
Who wishes to hold a public debate 
On sundry questions wrong or right ! 
Ah, now this is my great delight ! 
For I have often observed of late 
That such discussions end in a fight. 
Let us see what the learned wag main- 
tains 
With such a prodigal waste of brains. 

{Reads.) 

" Whether angels in moving from place 

to place 
Pass through the intermediate space. 
Whether God himself is the author of 

evil, 
Or whether that is the work of the Devil. 
When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell. 
And whether he now is chained in hell." 

I think I can answer that question well I 
So long as the boastful human mind 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 283- 


Consents in such mills as this to grind, 


Prince Henry. Against all opposition, 


I sit very firmly upon my throne ! 


Against all prayers,* entreaties, protesta- 


Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, 


tions. 


To see men leaving the golden grain 


She will not be persuaded. 


To gather in piles the pitiful chaff 


Lucifer. That is strange f 


That old Peter Lombard thrashed with 


Have you thought well of it ? 


his brain, 


Elsie. I come not here 


To have it caught up and tossed again 


To argue, but to die. Your business is 


On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Co- 


not 


logne ! 


To question, but to kill me. I am ready. 




I am impatient to be gone from here 


But my guests approach ! there is in the 


Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again 


air 


The spirit of tranquillity within me. 


A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful 


Prince Henry. Would I had not come 


Garden 


here ! Would I were dead. 


Of Paradise, in the days that were ! 


And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, 


An odor of innocence, and of prayer. 


And hadst not known me ! Why have I 


And of love, and faith that never fails. 


done this ? 


Such as the fresh young heart exhales 


Let me go back and die. 


Before it begins to wither and harden ! 


Elsie. It cannot be ; 


I cannot breathe such an atmosphere ! 


Not if these cold, flat stones on which we 


My soul is filled with a nameless fear, 


tread 


That, after all my trouble and pain. 


Were coulters heated white, and yonder 


After all my restless endeavor, 


gateway 


The youngest, fairest soul of the twain. 


Flamed like a furnace with a seven-fold 


The most ethereal, most divine. 


heat. 


Will escape from my hands for ever and 


I must fulfil my purpose. 


ever. 


Prince Henry. I forbid it ! 


But the other is already mine ! 


Not one step farther. For I only meant 


Let him live to corrupt his race, 


To put thus far thy courage to the proof 


Breathing among them, with every breath, 


It is enough. I, too, have strength to 


Weakness, selfishness, and the base 


die, 


And pusillanimous fear of death. 


For thou hast taught me ! 


I know his nature, and I know 


Elsie. my Prince ! remember 


That of all who in my ministry 


Your promises. Let me fulfil my errand. 


Wander the great earth to and fro, 


You do not look on life and death as I 


And on my errands come and go. 


do. 


The safest and subtlest are such as he. 


There are two angels, that attend un- 


(Enter Prince Henry ««</ Elsie, zuith 


seen 
Each one of us, and in great books record 


attendants.) 


Our good and evil deeds. He who writes 


Prince Hettry. Can you direct us to 


down 


Friar Angelo ? 


The good ones, after every action closes 


Lucifer. He stands before you. 


His volume, and ascends with it to God. 


Prince Henry. Then you know our 


The other keeps his dreadful day-book 


purpose. 


open 


I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this 


Till sunset, that we may repent ; which 


The maiden that I spake of in my letters. 


doing. 


Lucifer. It is a very grave and solemn 


The record of the action fades away, 


business ! 


And leaves a line of white across the 


We must not be precipitate. Does she 


page. 


Without compulsion, of her own free will, 


Now if my act be good, as I believe. 


Consent to this ? 


It cannot be recalled. It is already 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed ac- 
complished. • 

The rest is yours. Why wait you ? I 
am ready. 

{To her attendants.) 

Weep not, my friends ! rather rejoice 

with me. 
I shall not feel the pain, but shall be 

gone. 
And you will have another friend in 

heaven. 
Then start not at the creaking of the door 
Through which I pass. I see what lies 

beyond it. 

{To Prince Henry.) 

And you, O Prince ! bear back my beni- 

son 
Unto my father's house, and all within it. 
This morning in the church I prayed for 

them, 
After confession, after absolution. 
When my whole soul was white, I prayed 

for them. 
God will take care of them, they need me 

not. 
And in your life let my remembrance 

linger, 
As something not to trouble and disturb it, 
But to complete it, adding life to life. 
And if at times beside the evening fire 
You see my face among the other faces, 
Let it not be regarded as a ghost 
That haunts your house, but as a guest 

that loves you, 
Nay, even as one of your own family. 
Without whose presence there were 

something wanting. 
I have no more to say. Let us go in. 
Prince Henry. Friar Angelo ! I 

charge you on your life. 
Believe not what she says, for she is mad. 
And comes here not to die, but to be 

healed. 
Elsie. Alas ! Prince Henry ! 

Lucifer. Come with me ; this way. 

:(Elsie^(?^j in with LUCIFER, who thrusts 
Prince Henry back and closes the 
door.) 

Prince Henry. Gone ! and the light 
of all my life gone with her ! 



A sudden darkness falls upon the world ! 
O, what a vile and abject thing am I, 
That purchase length of days at such a 

cost ! 
Not by her death alone, but by the death 
Of all that 's good and true and noble in 

me ! 
All manhood, excellence, and self-respect, 
All love, and faith, and hope, and heart 

are dead ! 
All my divine nobility of nature 
By this one act is forfeited forever. 
I am a Prince in nothing but in name ! 

( To the attendants.) 

Why did you let this horrible deed be 
done .' 

Why did you not lay hold on her, and 
keep her 

From self-destruction ? Angelo ! mur- 
derer ! 

[Struggles at the door, but cannot open it.) 

Elsie (within). Farewell, dear Prince ! 

farewell ! 
Prince Henry. Unbar the door ! 

Lucifer. It is too late ! 
Prince Henry. It shall not be too late ! 

{They burst the door open and rush in.) 

The Cottage in the Odenwald. Ursula 
spinning. Summer afternooit. A table 
spread. 

Ursula. I have marked it well, — it 

must be true, — 
Death never takes one alone, but two ! 
Whenever he enters in at a door. 
Under roof of gold or roof of thatch. 
He always leaves it upon the latch, 
And comes again ere the year is o'er. 
Never one of a household only ! 
Perhaps it is a mercy of God, 
Lest the dead there under the sod, 
In the land of strangers, should be lonely ! 
Ah me ! I think I am lonelier here ! 
It is hard to go, — but harder to stay ! 
Were it not for the children, I should 

pray 
That Death would take me within the 

year ! 
And Gottlieb ! — he is at work all day, 
In the sunny field, or the forest murk, 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



285 



But I know that his thoughts are far 

away, 
I know that his heart is not in his work ! 
And when he comes home to me at night 
He is not cheery, but sits and sighs, 
And I see the great tears in his eyes, 
And try to be cheerful for his sake. 
Only the children's hearts are light. 



The garden gate ; — he is going past ! 

Can he be afraid of the bees \ 

No ; he is coming in at last ! 

He fills my heart with strange alarm ! 

{Enter a Forester.) 

Forester. Is this the tenant Gottlieb's 
farm ? 







Mine is weary, and ready to break. 

God help us ! I hope we have done right ; 

We thought we were acting for the best ! 

{Looking through the open door.) 

Who is it coming under the trees ? 

A man, in the Prince's livery dressed ! 

He looks about him with doubtful face. 

As if uncertain of the place. 

He stops at the beehives ; — now he sees 



Ursula. This is his farm, and I his 

wife. 
Pray sit. What may your business 

be? 
Forester. News from the Prince ! 
Ursula. Of death or life ? 

Forester. You put your questions 

eagerly ! 
Ursula. Answer me, then ! How is 

the Prince ? 



286 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Forestei: I left him only two hours 

since 
Homeward returning down the river, 
As strong and well as if God, the Giver, 
Had given him back his youth again. 
Ursula (despairing). Then Elsie, my 

poor child, is dead ! 
Forester. That, my good woman, I 

have not said. 
Don't cross the bridge till you come to it. 
Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. 
Ursula. Keep me no longer in this 

pain ! 
Forester. It is true your daughter is 

no more ; — 
That is, the peasant she was before. 
Ursula. Alas ! I am simple and lowly 

bred, 
I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. 
And it is not well that you of the court 
Should mock me thus, and make a sport 
Of a joyless mother whose child is dead. 
For you, too, were of mother born ! 

Forester. Your daughter lives, and the 

Prince is well ! 
You will learn erelong how it all befell. 
Her heart for a moment never failed ; 
But when they reached Salerno's gate. 
The Prince's nobler self prevailed. 
And saved her for a nobler fate. 
And he was healed, in his desjDair, 
By the touch of St. Matthew's sacred 

bones ; 
Though I think the long ride in the open 

air. 
That pilgrimage over stocks and stones. 
In the miracle must come in for a share ! 
Ursula. Virgin ! who lovest the poor 

and lowly. 
If the loud cry of a mother's heart 
Can ever ascend to where thou art, 
Into thy blessed hands and holy 
Receive my prayer of praise and thanks- 
giving ! 
Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear 

it 
Into the awful presence of God ; 
For thy feet with holiness are shod, 
And if thou bearest it he will hear it. 
Our child who was dead again is living ! 
Forester. I did not tell you she was 

dead ; 
If you thought so 't was no fault of mine ; 



At this very moment, while I speak. 
They are sailing homeward down the 

Rhine, 
In a splendid barge, with golden prow. 
And decked with banners white and red 
As the colors on your daughter's cheek. 
They call her the Lady Alicia now ; 
For the Prince in Salerno made a vow 
That Elsie only would he wed. 

Ursula. Jesu Maria ! what a change ! 
All seems to me so weird and strange ! 

Forester. I saw her standing on the 
deck. 
Beneath an awning cool and shady ; 
Her cap of velvet could not hold 
The tresses of her hair of gold. 
That flowed and floated like the stream. 
And fell in masses down her neck. 
As fair and lovely did she seem 
As in a story or a dream 
Some beautiful and foreign lady. 
And the Prince looked so grand and proud, 
And waved his hand thus to the crowd 
That gazed and shouted from the shore, 
All down the river, long and loud. 

Ursula. We shall behold our child 
once more ; 
She is not dead ! She is not dead ! 
God, listening, must have overheard 
The prayers, that, without sound or word. 
Our hearts in secrecy have said ! 
O, bring me to her ; for mine eyes 
Are hungry to behold her face ; 
My very soul within me cries ; 
My veiy hands seem to caress her, 
To see her, gaze at her, and bless her ; 
Dear Elsie, child of God and grace ! 

(Goes out toward the ga7-den.) 

Forester. There goes the good woman 

out of her head ; 
And Gottlieb's supper is waiting here ; 
A very capacious flagon of beer. 
And a very portentous loaf of bread. 
One would say his grief did not much 

oppress him. 
Here 's to the health of the Prince, God 

bless him ! 

(He drinks.) 

Ha ! it buzzes and stings like a hornet ! 
And what a scene there, through the door ! 
The forest behind and the garden before. 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



28 7 



And midway an old man of threescore, 

With a wife and children that caress him. 

Let me try still further to cheer and 
adorn it 

With a merry, echoing blast of my cor- 
net ! 

{Goes out blo^ving his horn.) 

The Castle of Vatitsberg on the Rhine. 
Prince Henry and Elsie stayiding on 
the terrace at evening. The sound of 
bells hea^-d from a distance. 



Elsie. Listen, beloved. 

Prince Henry. They are done ! 

Dear Elsie ! many years ago 
Those same soft bells at eventide 
Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, 
As, seated by Fastrada's side 
At Ingelheim, in all his pride 
He heard their sound with secret pain. 

Elsie. Their voices only speak to 
me 
Of peace and deep tranquillity, 
And endless confidence in thee ! 




Prince Henry. We are alone. The 
wedding guests 
Ride down the hill, with plumes and 

cloaks, 
And the descending dark invests 
The Niederwald, and all the nests 
Among its hoar and haunted oaks. 
Elsie. What bells are those, that ring 
so slow, 
So mellow, musical, and low ? 
Pri7tce Henry. They are the bells of 
Geisenheim, 
That with their melancholy chime 
Ring out the curfew of the sun. 



Prince Henry. Thou knowcst the story 
of her ring. 
How, when the court went back to Aix, 
Fastrada died ; and how the king 
Sat watching by her night and day. 
Till into one of the blue lakes. 
Which water that delicious land, 
They cast the ring, drawn from her hand ; 
And the great monarch sat serene 
And sad beside the fated shore, 
Nor left the land forevermore. 

Elsie. That was true love. 

Prince Henry. For him the queen 
Ne'er did what thou hast done for me. 



288 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



Elsie. Wilt thou as fond and faithful 
be? 
Wilt thou so love me after death ? 

Prince Henry. In life's delight, in 
death's dismay, 
In storm and sunshine, night and day, 
In health, in sickness, in decay, 
Here and hereafter, I am thine ! 
Thou hast Fastrada's ring. Beneath 
The calm, blue waters of thine eyes 
Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, 



The evening air grows damp and chill ; 
Let us go in. 

Elsie. Ah, not so soon. 
See yonder fire ! It is the moon 
Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. 
It glimmers on the forest tips. 
And through the dewy foliage drips 
In little rivulets of light, 
And makes the heart in love with night. 

Prince Henry. Oft on this terrace 
when the day 







And, undisturbed by this world's breath. 
With magic light its jewels shine ! 
This golden ring, which thou hast worn 
Upon thy finger since the morn. 
Is but a symbol and a semblance. 
An outward fashion, a remembrance, 
Of what thou wearest within unseen, 
O my Fastrada, O my queen ! 
Behold ! the hill-tops all aglow 
With purple and with amethyst ; 
While the whole valley deep below 
Is filled, and seems to overflow. 
With a fast-rising tide of mist. 



Was closing, have I stood and gazed, 
And seen the landscape fade away, 
And the white vapors rise and drown 
Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town, 
While far above the hill-tops blazed. 
But then another hand than thine 
Was gently held and clasped in mine ; 
Another head upon my breast 
Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. 
Why dost thou lift those tender eyes 
With so much sorrow and surprise ? 
A minstrel's, not a maiden's hand. 
Was that which in my own was pressed 



THE GOLDEiY LEGEND. 



289 



A manly form usurped thy place, 
A beautiful, but bearded face, 
Tliat now is in the Holy Land, 
\'et in my memory from afar 



God sent his messenger of faith, 
And whispered in the maiden's heart, 
" Rise up, and look from where thou art, 
And scatter with unselfish hands 




Is shining on us like a star. 
But linger not. For while I speak, 
A sheeted spectre white and tall, 
The cold mist climbs the castle wall, 
And lays his hand upon thy cheek ! 

{They go in.) 
EPILOGUE. 

THE TWO RKCORDI.N'G ANGELS ASCEND- 
ING. 

The Angel of Good Deeds (with closed 
hook). God sent his messenger the 
rain. 
And said unto the mountain brook, 
" Rise up, and from thy caverns look 
And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, 
From the cool hills into the heat 
Of the broad, arid plain."' 
19 



Thy freshness on the barren sands 

And solitudes of Death." 

O beauty of holiness, 

Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness ! 

O power of meekness. 

Whose veiy gentleness and weakness 

Are like the yielding, but irresistible air I 

Upon the pages 

Of the sealed volume that I bear, 

The deed divine 

Is written in characters of gold. 

That never shall grow old. 

But through all ages 

Burn and shine, 

With soft effulgence ! 

O God ! it is thy indulgence 

That fills the world with the bliss 

Of a good deed like this ! 

The Angel of Evil Deeds (with open 
book). Not yet, not yet 
Is the red sun wholly set, 



290 



THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 



But evermore recedes, 

While open still I bear 

The Book of Evil Deeds, 

To let the breathings of the upper air 

Visit its pages and erase 

The records from its face ! 

Fainter and fainter as I gaze 

In the broad blaze 

The glimmering landscape shines, 

And below me the black river 



With closed Book 
To God do I ascend. 

Lo ! over the mountain steeps 

A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps 

Beneath my feet ; 

A blackness inwardly brightening 

With sullen heat, 

As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning 

And a cry of lamentation. 




Is hidden by wreaths of vapor ! 

Fainter and fainter the black lines 

Begin to quiver 

Along the whitening surface of the paper 

Shade after shade 

The terrible words grow faint and fade. 

And in their place 

Runs a white space ! 

Down goes the sun ! 

But the soul of one. 

Who by repentance 

Has escaped the dreadful sentence, 

Shines bright below me as I look. 

It is the end ! 



Repeated and again repeated. 

Deep and loud 

As the reverberation 

Of cloud answering unto cloud, 

Swells and rolls away in the distance, 

As if the sheeted 

Lightning retreated. 

Baffled and thwarted by the wind': 

resistance. 
It is Lucifer, 
The son of mystery ; 
And since God suffei-s him to be. 
He, too, is God's minister. 
And labors for some good 
By us not understood ! 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Should you ask me, whence these 


Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 


stories ? 


Round about the Indian village 


Whence these legends and traditions, 


.Spread the meadows and the corn-fields, 


With the odors of the forest, 


And beyond them stood the forest. 


With the dew and damp of meadows, 


Stood the groves of singing pine-trees. 


With the curling smoke of wig^vams, 


Green in Summer, white in Winter, 


With the rushing of great rivers, 


Ever sighing, ever singing. 


With their frequent repetitions. 


" And the pleasant water-courses. 


And their wild reverberations, 


You could trace them through the valley, 


As of thunder in the mountains ? 


By the rushing in the Spring-time, 


I should answer, I should tell you, 


By the alders in the Summer, 


" From the forests and the prairies, 


By the white fog in the Autumn, 


From the great lakes of the Northland, 


By the black line in the Winter ; 


From the land of the Ojibways, 


And beside them dwelt the singer, 


From the land of the Dacotahs, 


In the vale of Tawasentha, 


From the mountains, moors, and fen- 


In the green and silent valley. 


lands. 


" There he sang of Hiawatha, 


Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 


Sang the Song of Hiawatha, 


Feeds among the reeds and rushes. 


Sang his wondrous birth and being, 


I repeat them as I heard them 


How he prayed and how he fasted. 


From the lips of Nawadaha, 


How he lived, and toiled, and suffered, 


The musician, the sweet singer." 


That the tribes of men might prosper. 


Should you ask where Nawadaha 


That he might advance his people ! " 


Found these songs, so wild and way- 


Ye who love the haunts of Nature, 


ward. 


Love the sunshine of the meadow. 


Found these legends and traditions. 


Love the shadow of the forest, 


I should answer, I should tell you, 


Love the wind among the branches. 


" In the bird's-nests of the forest. 


And the rain-shower and the sno\\- 


In the lodges of the beaver, 


storm. 


In the hoof-prints of the bison. 


And the rushing of great rivers 


In the eyry of the eagle ! 


Through their palisades of pine-trees, 


" All the wild-fowl sang them to him. 


And the thunder in the mountains. 


In the moorlands and the fen-lands. 


Whose innumerable echoes 


In the melancholy marshes ; 


Flap like eagles in their eyries ; — 


Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, 


Listen to these wild traditions, 


Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose. 


To this Song of Hiawatha ! 


Wawa, 


Ye who love a nation's legends, 


The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 


Love the ballads of a people, 


And the grouse, the Mushkodasa ! " 


That like voices from afar off 


If still further you should ask me, 


Call to us to pause and listen. 


Saying, " Who was Nawadaha ? 


Speak in tones so plain and childlike. 


Tell us of this Nawadaha," 


Scarcely can the ear distinguish 


I should answer your inquiries 


Whether they are sung or spoken ; — 


Straightway in such words as follow. 


Listen to this Indian Legend, 


"In the Vale of Tawasentha, 


To this Song of Hiawatha ! 


In the green and silent valley, 


Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple. 


Hy the pleasant water-courses. 


Who have faith in God and Nature, 



THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 



Who believe, that in all ages 

Every human heart is human, 

That in even savage bosoms 

There are longings, yearnings, strivings 

For the good they comprehend not. 

That the feeble hands and helpless, 

Groping blindly in the darkness 

Touch God's right hand in that darkness 

And are lifted up and strengthened ; — 

Listen to this simple story. 

To this Song of Hiawatha ! 



Of the Here and the Hereafter ; — 
Stay and read this rude inscription, 
Read this Song of Hiawatha ! 



I. 



THE I'EACK-l'IPE. 

On the Mountains of the Trairie, 
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 




Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles 
Through the green lanes of the countiy, 
Where the tangled barberry-bushes 
Hang their tufts of crimson berries 
Over stone walls gray with mosses. 
Pause by some neglected graveyard, 
For a while to muse, and ponder 
On a half-effaced inscription. 
Written with little skill of song-craft. 
Homely phrases, but each letter 
Full of hope and yet of heart-break, 
Full of all the tender pathos 



He the Master of Life, descending. 
On the red crags of the quarry 
Stood erect, and called the nations. 
Called the tribes of men together. 

From his footprints flowed a river. 
Leaped into the light of morning, 
O'er the precipice plunging downward 
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet. 
And the Spirit, stooping earthward. 
With his finger on the meadow 
Traced a winding pathway for it. 
Saying to it, " Run in this way ! " 



THE PEACE-PIPE. 



293 



From the red stone of the quarry 
With his hand he broke a fragment, 
Moulded it into a pipe-head, 
Shaped and fashioned it with figures ; 



Said : " Behold it, the Pukwana ! 
By this signal from afar off. 
Bending like a wand of willow, 
Waving like a hand that beckons. 




From the margin of the river 
1 ook a long reed for a pipe-stem, 
W ith its dark green leaves upon it ; 
Fnied the pipe with bark of willow, 
With the bark of the red willow ; 
Breathed upon the neighboring forest. 
Made its great boughs chafe together, 
Till in flame they burst and kindled ; 
Ana erect upon the mountains, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe, 
As a signal to the nations. 

And the smoke rose slowly, slowly, 
Through the tranquil air of morning. 
First a single line of darkness. 
Then a denser, bluer vapor, 
Then a snow-white cloud unfolding. 
Like the tree-tops of the forest. 
Ever rising, rising, rising. 
Till it touched the top of heaven. 
Till it broke against the heaven. 
And rolled outward all around it. 

From the Vale of Tawasentha, 
From the Valley of Wyoming, 
From the groves of Tuscaloosa, 
From the far-off Rocky Mountains, 
From the Northern lakes and rivers 
All the tribes beheld the signal, 
3aw the distant smoke ascending. 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. 

And the Prophets of the nations 



Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Calls the tribes of men together, 
Calls the warriors to his council ! " 

Down the rivers, o'er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations. 
Came the Delawares and Mohawks, 
Came the Choctaws and Camanches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet, 
Came the Pawnees and Omahas, 
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 
Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 
All the warriors drawn together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 
To the Mountains of the Prairie, 
To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry. 

And they stood there on the meadow, 
With their weapons and their war-gear, 
Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Wildly glaring at each other ; 
In their faces stern defiance. 
In their hearts the feuds of ages, 
The hereditary hatred. 
The ancestral thirst of vengeance. 

Gitche Manito, the mighty. 
The creator of the nations. 
Looked upon them with compassion, 
With paternal love and pity ; 
Looked upon their wrath and wrangling 
But as quarrels among children, 
P.ut as feuds and fisfhts of children ! 



294 



THE SONG OF HI A WA JHA. 



Over them he stretched his right hand, 
To subdue their stubborn natures, 
To allay their thirst and fever, 
By the shadow of his right hand ; 
Spake to them with voice majestic 
As the sound of far-off waters, 
Falling into deep abysses. 
Warning, chiding, spake in this wise : — 

" O my children ! my poor children ! 
Listen to the words of wisdom. 



Weary of your wars and bloodshed, 
Weary of your prayers for vengeance, 
Of your wranglings and dissensions ; 
All your strength is in your union. 
All your danger is in discord ; 
Therefore be at peace henceforward. 
And as brothers live together. 

" I will send a Prophet to you, 
A Deliverer of the nations, 
Who shall guide you and shall teach yiiu, 




Listen to the words of warning, 

From the lips of the Great Spirit, 

From the Master of Life, who made you ! 

" I have given you lands to hunt in, 
I have given you streams to fish in, 
I have given you bear and bison, 
I have given you roe and reindeer, 
I have given you brant and beaver. 
Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl. 
Filled the rivers full of fishes ; 
Why then are you not contented ? 
Why then will you hunt each other ? 

" I am weary of your quarrels, 



Who shall toil and suffer with you. 
If you listen to his counsels. 
You will multiply and prosper ; 
If his warnings pass unheeded. 
You will fade away and perish ! 

" Bathe now in the stream before you, 
Wash the war-paint from your faces, 
Wash the blood-stains from your fingers, 
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons, 
Break the red stone from this quarry, 
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes, 
Take the reeds that grow beside you. 
Deck them with vour brightest feathers. 



THE FOUR WINDS. 



295 



Smoke the calumet together, 

And as brothers live henceforward ! " 

Then upon the ground the warriors 
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer- 
skin, 
Threw their weapons and their war-gear, 
Leaped into the rushing river, 
Washed the war-paint from their faces. 
Clear above them flowed the water, 
Clear and limpid from the footprints 
Of the Master of Life descending; 
Dark below them flowed the water. 
Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson. 
As if blood were mingled with it ! 

From the river came the warriors. 
Clean and washed from all their war- 
paint ; 
On the banks their clubs they buried. 
Buried all their warlike weapons. 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Smiled upon his helpless children ! 

And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarry. 
Smoothed and formed it into Peace- 

Pipes, 
Broke the long reeds by the river. 
Decked them with their brightest feath- 
ers. 
And departed each one homeward. 
While the Master of Life, ascending. 
Through the opening of cloud-curtains. 
Through the doorways of the heaven. 
Vanished from before their faces. 
In the smoke that rolled around him, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-pipe ! 



IL 



THE FOUR WINDS. 

" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
Cried the warriors, cried the old men. 
When he came in triumph homeward 
With the sacred Belt of Wampum, 
From the regions of the North-Wind, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit. 

He had stolen the Belt of Wampum 
From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, 
From the Great Bear of the mountains, 
From the terror of the nations. 
As he lay asleep and cumbrous. 



On the summit of the mountains, 
Like a rock with mosses on it. 
Spotted brown and gray with mosses. 

Silently he stole upon him, 
Till the red nails of the monster 
Almost touched him, almost scared him, 
Till the hot breath of his nostrils 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis, 
As he drew the Belt of Wampum 
Over the round ears, that heard not. 
Over the small eyes, that saw not. 
Over the long nose and nostrils. 
The black mufl[le of the nostrils, 
Out of which the heavy breathing 
Warmed the hands of Mudjekeewis. 

Then he swung aloft his war-club. 
Shouted loud and long his war-cry. 
Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of the forehead, 
Right between the eyes he smote him. 

With the heavy blow bewildered, 
Rose the Great Bear of the mountains ; 
But his knees beneath him trembled. 
And he whimpered like a woman, 
As he reeled and staggered forward, 
As he sat upon his haunches ; 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Standing fearlessly before him. 
Taunted him in loud derision. 
Spake disdainfully in this wise : — 

" Hark you. Bear ! you are a coward. 
And no Brave, as you pretended ; 
Else you would not cry and whimper 
Like a miserable woman ! 
Bear ! you know our tribes are hostile. 
Long have been at war together ; 
Now you find that we are strongest, 
You go sneaking in the forest. 
You go hiding in the mountains ! 
Had you conquered me in battle. 
Not a groan would I have uttered ; 
But you. Bear ! sit here and whimpei 
And disgrace your tribe by crying. 
Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 
Like a cowardly old woman ! " 

Then again he raised his war-club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead. 
Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 
Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 
He the Great Bear of the mountains. 
He the terror of the nations. 



296 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! " 
With a shout exclaimed the people, 
" Honor be to Mudjekeewis ! 
Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind, 
And hereafter and forever 
Shall he hold supreme dominion 
Over all the winds of heaven. 
Call him no more Mudjekeewis, 
Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind ! " 



Chased the dark o'er hill and valley ; 
He it was whose cheeks were painted 
With the brightest streaks of crim- 
son, 
And whose voice awoke the village. 
Called the deer, and called the hunter. 

Lonely in the sky was Wabun ; 
Though the birds sang gayly to him. 
Though the wild-flowers of the meadow 




Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 
For himself he kept the West- Wind, 
Gave the others to his children ; 
Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawondasee, 
And the North-Wind, wild and cruel, 
To the fierce Kabibonokka. 

Young and beautiful was Wabun ; 
He it was who brought the morning, 
He it was whose silver arrows 



Filled the air with odors for him, 
Though the forests and the rivers 
Sang and shouted at his coming, 
Still his heart was sad within him. 
For he was alone in heaven. 

But one morning, gazing earthward, 
While the village still was sleeping. 
And the fog lay on the river. 
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise. 
He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone upon a meadow, 



THE FOUR WINDS. 297 


Gathering water-flags and ruslies 


Though his tribe had long departed 


By a river in tlie meadow. 


To the land of Shawondasee. 


Every morning, gazing eartliward, 


Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 


Still the first thing he beheld there 


" Who is this that dares to brave me ? 


Was her blue eyes looking at him, 


Dares to stay in my dominions. 


Two blue lakes among the rushes. 


When the Wawa has departed. 


And he loved the lonely maiden, 


When the wild-goose has gone south- 


Who thus waited for his coming ; 


ward. 


For they both were solitary, 


And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 


She on earth and he in heaven. 


Long ago departed southward ? 


And he wooed her with caresses, 


I will go into his wigwam. 


Wooed her with his smile of sunshine. 


I will put his smouldering fire out ! " 


With his flattering words he wooed her. 


And at night Kabibonokka 


With his sighing and his singing. 


To the lodge came wild and wailing, 


Gentlest whispers in the branches. 


Heaped the snow in drifts about it. 


Softest music, sweetest odors. 


Shouted down into the smoke-flue. 


Till he drew her to his bosom. 


Shook the lodge-poles in his fury. 


Folded in his robes of crimson, 


Flapped the curtain of the doorway. 


Till into a star he changed her, 


Shingebis, the diver, feared not. 


Trembling still upon his bosom ; 


Shingebis, the diver, cared not ; 


And forever in the heavens 


Four great logs had he for fire-wood, 


They are seen together walking. 


One for each moon of the winter, 


Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, 


And for food the fishes served him. 


Wabun and the Star of Morning. 


By his blazing fire he sat there, 


But the fierce Kabibonokka 


Warm and merry, eating, laughing. 


Had his dwelling among icebergs, 


Singing, " O Kabibonokka, 


In the everlasting snow-drifts, 


You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 


In the kingdom of Wabasso, 


Then Kabibonokka entered. 


In the land of the White Rabbit. 


And though Shingebis, the diver. 


He it was whose hand in Autumn 


Felt his presence by the coldness. 


Painted all the trees with scarlet, 


Felt his icy breath upon him. 


Stained the leaves with red and yellow ; 


Still he did not cease his singing. 


He it was who sent the snow-flakes, 


Still he did not leave his laughing. 


Sifting, hissing through the forest, 


Only turned the log a little. 


Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers. 


Only made the fire burn brighter, 


Drove the loon and sea-gull south- 


Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue. 


ward 


From Kabibonokka's forehead. 


Drove the cormorant and curlew 


From his snow-besprinkled tresses, 


To their nests of sedge and sea-tang 


Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy, 


In the realms of Shawondasee. 


Making dints upon the ashes, 


Once the fierce Kabibonokka 


As along the eaves of lodges. 


Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts. 


As from drooping boughs of hemlock. 


From his home among the icebergs. 


Drips the melting snow in spring-time. 


And his hair, with snow besprinkled, 


Making hollows in the snow-drifts. 


Streamed behind him like a river, 


Till at last he rose defeated, 


Like a black and wintry river. 


Could not bear the heat and laughter, 


As he howled and hurried southward. 


Could not bear the meny singing. 


Over frozen lakes and moorlands. 


But rushed headlong through the door- 


There among the reeds and rushes 


way. 


Found he Shingebis, the diver, 


Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts. 


Trailing strings of fish behind him. 


Stamped upon the lakes and rivers. 


O'er the frozen fens and moorlands, 


Made the snow upon them harder, 


lingering still among the moorlands. 


Made the ice upon them thicker, 



Challenged Shingebis, the diver, 
To come forth and wrestle with him, 
To come forth and wrestle naked 
On the frozen fens and moorlands. 

Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
Wrestled all night with the North- Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka, 
Till his panting breath grew fainter, 
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler. 
Till he reeled and staggered backward. 
And retreated, baffled, beaten. 
To the kingdom of Wabasso, 
To the land of the White Rabbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter. 
Hearing Shingebis, the diver. 
Singing, " O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal ! " 

Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 
Had his dwelling far to southward, 
In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine. 
In the never-ending Summer. 
He it was who sent the wood-birds. 
Sent the robin, the Opechee, 
Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow. 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, 
Sent the melons and tobacco. 
And the grapes in purple clusters. 

From his pipe the smoke ascending 
Filled the sky with haze and vapor. 
Filled the air with dreamy softness. 
Gave a twinkle to the water. 
Touched the rugged hills with smooth- 
ness. 
Brought the tender Indian Summer 
To the melancholy north-land, 
In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes. 

Listless, careless Shawondasee ! 
In his life he had one shadow, 
In his heart one sorrow had he. 
Once, as he was gazing northward. 
Far away upon a prairie 
He beheld a maiden standing. 
Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie ; 
Brightest green were all her garments. 
And her hair was like the sunshine. 

Day by day he gazed upon her, 
Day by day he sighed with passion. 
Day by day his heart within him 
Grew more hot with love and longing 
For the maid with yellow tresses. 



But he was too fat and lazy 
To bestir himself and woo her ; 
Yes, too indolent and easy 
To pursue her and persuade her. 
So he only gazed upon her. 
Only sat and sighed with passion 
For the maiden of the prairie. 

Till one morning, looking northward. 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o'er with whiteness. 
Covered as with whitish snow-flakes. 
" Ah ! my brother from the North-land, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White Rabbit ! 
You have stolen the maiden from me. 
You have laid your hand upon her. 
You have wooed and won my maiden. 
With your stories of the North-land ! " 

Thus the wretched Shawondasee 
Breathed into the air his sorrows ; 
And the South-Wind o'er the prairie 
Wandered warm with sighs of passion, 
With the sighs of Shawondasee, 
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, 
Full of thistle-down the prairie, 
And the maid with hair like sunshine 
Vanished from his sight forever ; 
Nevermore did Shawondasee 
See the maid with yellow tresses ! 

Poor, deluded Shawondasee ! 
'T was no woman that you gazed at, 
'T was no maiden that you sighed for, 
'T was the prairie dandelion 
That through all the dreamy Summer 
You had gazed at with such longing. 
You had sighed for with such passion, 
And had puffed away forever. 
Blown into the air with sighing. 
Ah ! deluded Shawondasee ! 

Thus the Four Winds were divided ; 
Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 
Had their stations in the heavens. 
At the corners of the heavens ; 
For himself the West-Wind only 
Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. 

III. 

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD. 

Downward through the evening twi- 
light, 
In the days that are forgotten. 



HI A WA THA'S CHILDHOOD. 



299 



In the unrememberecl ages, 
From the full moon fell Nokomis, 
Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 
She a wife, but not a mother. 

She was sporting with her women, 
Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, 
When her rival, the rejected. 
Full of jealousy and hatred. 
Cut the leafy swing asunder. 
Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines. 
And Nokomis fell affrighted 
Downward through the evening twilight. 
On the Muskoday, the meadow. 
On the prairie full of blossoms. 
" See ! a star falls ! " said the people ; 
" From the .sky a star is falling ! " 

There among the ferns and mosses. 
There among the prairie lilies, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow. 
In the moonlight and the starlight, 
Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 
And she called her name Wenonah, 
As the first-born of her daughters. 
And the daughter of Nokomis 
Grew up like the prairie lilies. 
Grew a tall and slender maiden. 
With the beauty of the moonlight. 
With the beauty of the starlight. 

And Nokomis warned her often, 
Saying oft, and oft repeatmg, 
" O, beware of Mudjekeewis, 
Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis ; 
Listen not to what he tells you ; 
Lie not down upon the meadow. 
Stoop not down among the lilies. 
Lest the W^est-Wind come and harm 
you ! " 
But she heeded not the warning. 
Heeded not those words of wisdom. 
And the West- Wind came at evening, 
Walking lightly o'er the prairie. 
Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, 
Bending low the flowers and grasses, 
Found the beautiful Wenonah, 
Lying there among the lilies. 
Wooed her with his words of sweetness, 
Wooed her with his soft caresses. 
Till she bore a son in sorrow. 
Bore a son of love and sorrow. 

Thus was born my Hiawatha, 
Thus was born the child of wonder ; 
But the daughter of Nokomis, 
Hiawatha's gentle mother. 



In her anguish died deserted 

By the West- Wind, false and faithless. 

By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter, long and loudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis ; 
" O that I were dead ! " she murmured, 
" O that I were dead, as thou art ! 
No more work, and no more weeping, 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big- Sea- Water, 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest, 
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon them ; 
Bright before it beat the water, 
Beat the clear and sunny water. 
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. 

There the wrinkled, old Nokomis 
Nursed the little Hiawatha, 
Rocked him in his linden cradle. 
Bedded soft in moss and rushes. 
Safely bound with reindeer sinews ; 
Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 
" Hush ! the Naked Bear will hear 

thee ! " 
Lulled him into slumber, singing, 
" Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! 
Who is this, that lights the wigwam ? 
With his great eyes lights the wigwam ? 
Ewa-yea ! my little owlet ! " 

Many things Nokomis taught him 
Of the stars that shine in heaven ; 
Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses ; 
Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits. 
Warriors with their plumes and war- 
clubs. 
Flaring far away to northward 
In the frosty nights of Winter ; 
Showed the broad, white road in heaven. 
Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows. 
Running straight across the heavens, 
Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows. 

At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha ; 
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees. 
Heard the lapping of the water, 
Sounds of music, words of wonder ; 
" Minne-wawa ! " said the pine-trees, 
" Mudway-aushka ! " said the water. 
Saw the fire-flv, Wah-wah-taysee, 



300 



THE SOXG OF HIAWATHA. 



Flitting through the dusk of evening, 


Whispered, " What is that, Nokomis ? " 


With the twinlcle of its candle 


And the good Nokomis answered : 


Lighting up the brakes and bushes, 


" 'T is the heaven of flowers you see 


And he sang the song of children, 


there ; 


Sang the song Nokomis taught him : 


All the wild flowers of the forest. 


" Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 


All the lilies of the prairie. 


Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 


When on earth they fade and perish, 


Little, dancing, white-fire creature. 


Blossom in that heaven above us." 


Light me with your little candle, 


When he heard the owls at midnight, 


Ere upon my bed I lay me, 


Hooting, laughing in the forest, 


Ere in sleep I close my eyelids !" 


" What is that ?" he cried in terror ; 




Saw the moon rise from the water 
Ripijling, rounding from the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 
Whispered " What is that, Nokomis ? " 
And the good Nokomis answered ; 
" Once a warrior, very angry. 
Seized his grandmother, and threw her 
Up into the sky at midnight ; 
Right against the moon he threw her ; 
'T is her body that you see there." 

Saw the rainbow in the heaven. 
In the eastern sky, the rainbow, 



" What is that .^ " he said, " Nokomis .' " 
And the good Nokomis answered : 
" That is but the owl and owlet, 
Talking in their native language. 
Talking, scolding at each other." 

Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of eveiy bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How they built their nests in Summer, 
Where they hid themselves in Winter, 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them " HiawathaV Chickens." 



HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS. 



Of all beasts he learned the Linguage, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns. 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 
Why the rabbit was so timid. 
Talked with them whene'er he met them. 
Called them " Hiawatha's Brothers." 

Then lagoo, the great boaster. 
He the marvellous story-teller. 
He the traveller and the talker. 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Made a bow for Hiawatha ; 
From a branch of ash he made it, 
From an oak-bough made the arrows, 
Tipped with flint, and winged with feath- 
ers, 
And the cord he made of deer-skin. 

Then he said to Hiawatha : 
" Go, my son, into the forest. 
Where the red deer herd together. 
Kill for us a famous roebuck, 
Kill for us a deer with antlers ! " 

Forth into the forest straightway 
All alone walked Hiawatha 
Proudly, with his bow and arrows ; 
And the birds sang round him, o'er him, 
" Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
" Do not shoot us, Hiawatha ! " 

Up the oak-tree, close beside him. 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
In and out among the branches. 
Coughed and chattered from the oak- 
tree, 
Laughed, and said between his laughing, 
' Do not shoot me, Hiawatha ! " 

And the rabbit from his pathway 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches. 
Half in fear and half in frolic. 
Saying to the little hunter, 
" Do not shoot mc, Hiawatha ! " 

But he heeded not, nor heard them, 
For his thoughts were with the red deer ; 
On their tracks his eyes were fastened, 
Leading downward to the river. 
To the ford across the river. 
And as one in slumber walked he. 

Hidden in the alder-bushes, 
There he waited till the deer came, 
Till he saw two antlers lifted, 



Saw two eyes look from the thicket. 
Saw two nostrils point to windward, 
And a deer came down the pathway. 
Flecked with leafy light and shadow. 
And his heart within him fluttered. 
Trembled like the leaves above him, 
Like the birch-leaf palpitated. 
As the deer came down the pathway. 

Then, upon one knee uprising, 
Hiawatha aimed an arrow ; 
Scarce a twig moved with his motion. 
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled. 
But the wary roebuck started. 
Stamped with all his hoofs together, 
Listened with one foot uplifted, 
Leaped as if to meet the arrow ; 
Ah ! the singing, fatal arrow. 
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him ! 

Dead he lay there in the forest, 
By the ford across the river ; 
Beat his timid heart no longer. 
But the heart of Hiawatha 
Throbbed and shouted and exulted, 
As he bore the red deer homeward, 
And lagoo and Nokomis 
Hailed his coming with applauses.- 

From the red deer's hide Nokomis 
Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 
From the red deer's flesh Nokomis 
Made a banquet in his honor. 
All the village came and feasted. 
All the guests praised Hiawatha, 
Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-getaha ! 
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-gotaysee I 

IV. 

HIAWATHA AND MUDJKKKEWIS. 

Out of childhood into manhood 
Now had grown my Hiawatha, 
Skilled in all the craft of hunters. 
Learned in all the lore of old men. 
In all youthful sports and pastimes, 
In all manly arts and labors. 

Swift of foot was Hiawatha ; 
He could shoot an arrow from him, 
And run forward with such fleetness, 
That the arrow fell behind him ! 
Strong of arm was Hiawatha ; 
He could shoot ten arrows upward, 
Shoot them with such strength and swift- 
ness. 



302 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



That the tenth had left the bow-strinj 
Ere the first to earth had fallen ! 
He had mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Magic mittens made of deer-skin ; 
When upon his hands he wore them, 
He could smite the rocks asunder, 
He could grind them into powder. 



Of the beauty of his mother, 
Of the falsehood of his father ; 
And his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 
Then he said to old Nokomis, 
" I will go to Mudjekeewis, 
See how fares it with my father, 




He had moccasins enchanted. 
Magic moccasins of deer-skin ; 
When he bound them round his ankles 
When upon his feet he tied them. 
At each stride a mile he measured ! 
Much he questioned old Nokomis 
Of his father Mudjekeewis ; 
Learned from her the fatal secret 



At the doorways of the West- Wind, 
At the portals of the Sunset ! " 

From his lodge went Hiawatha, 
Dressed for travel, armed for hunting ; 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leggings, 
Richly wrought with quills and warn 

pum ; 
On his head his eagle-feathers, 



HIAWATHA AND 


MUDJEKEE WIS. 3 03 


Round his waist his belt of wampum, 


Long have I been waiting for you ! 


In his hand his bow of ash-wood, 


Youth is lovely, age is lonely, 


Strung with sinews of the reindeer ; 


Youth is fiery, age is frosty ; 


In his quiver oaken arrows. 


You bring back the days departed. 


Tipped with jasper, winged with feath- 


You bring back my youth of passion, 


ers ; 


And the beautiful Wenonah ! " 


With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 


Many days they talked together. 


With his moccasins enchanted. 


Questioned, listened, waited, answered ; 


Warning said the old Nokomis, 


Much the mighty Mudjekeewis 


" Go not forth, O Hiawatha ! 


Boasted of his ancient prowess, 


To the kingdom of the West- Wind, 


Of his perilous adventures. 


To the realms of Mudjekeewis, 


His indomitable courage, 


Lest he harm you with his magic. 


His invulnerable body. 


Lest he kill you with his cunning ! " 


Patiently sat Hiawatha, 


But the fearless Hiawatha 


Listening to his father's boasting ; 


Heeded not her woman's warning ; 


With a smile he sat and listened, 


Forth he strode into the forest, 


Uttered neither threat nor menace. 


At each stride a mile he measured ; 


Neither word nor look betrayed him, 


Lurid seemed the sky above him, 


But his heart was hot within him. 


Lurid seemed the earth beneath him, 


Like a living coal his heart was. 


Hot and close the air around him. 


Then he said, " O Mudjekeewis, 


Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, 


Is there nothing that can harm you ? 


As of burning woods and prairies. 


Nothing that you are afraid of ? " 


For his heart was hot within him, 


And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 


Like a living coal his heart was. 


Grand and gracious in his boasting. 


So he journeyed westward, westward. 


Answered, saying, " There is nothing. 


Left the fleetest deer behind him, 


Nothing but the black rock yonder, 


Left the antelope and bison ; 


Nothing but the fatal Wawbeek ! " 


Crossed the rushing Esconaba, 


And he looked at Hiawatha 


Crossed the mighty Mississippi, 


With a wise look and benignant, 


Passed the Mountains of the Prairie, 


With a countenance paternal. 


Passed the land of Crows and Fo.xes, 


Looked with pride upon the beauty 


Passed the dwellings of the Blackfeet, 


Of his tall and graceful figure. 


Came unto the Rocky Mountains, 


Saying, " my Hiawatha ! 


To the kingdom of the West- Wind, 


Is there anything can harm you ? 


Where upon the gusty summits 


Anything you are afraid of .'' " 


Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, 


But the wary Hiawatha 


Ruler of the winds of heaven. 


Paused awhile, as if uncertain, 


Filled with awe was Hiawatha 


Held his peace, as if resolving. 


At the aspect of his father. 


And then answered, " There is nothing, 


On the air about him wildly 


Nothing but the bulrush yonder. 


Tossed and streamed his cloudy tresses. 


Nothing but the great Apukwa ! " 


Gleamed like drifting snow his tresses. 


And as Mudjekeewis, rising, 


Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, 


Stretched his hand to pluck the bulrush, 


Like the star with fiery tresses. 


Hiawatha cried in terror. 


Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis 


Cried in well-dissembled terror, 


When he looked on Hiawatha, 


" Kago ! kago ! do not touch it ! " 


Saw his youth rise up before him 


" Ah, kaween ! " said Mudjekeewis, 


In the face of Hiawatha, 


" No indeed, I will not touch it ! " 


Saw the beauty of Wenonah 


Then they talked of other matters ; 


From the grave rise up before him. 


First of Hiawatha's brothers, 


" Welcome ! " said he, " Hiawatha, 


First of Wabun, of the East- Wind, 


To the kingdom of the West-Wind ! 


Of the South-Wind, Shawondasec, 



304 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Of the North, Kabibonokka ; 
Then of Hiawatha's mother, 
Of the beautiful Wenonah, 
Of her birth upon the meadow, 
Of her death, as old Nokomis 
Had remembered and related. 

And he cried, " O Mudjekeewis, 
It was you who killed Wenonah, 
Took her young life and her beauty, 
Broke the Lily of the Prairie, 
Trampled it beneath your footsteps ; 
You confess it ! you confess it ! " 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Tossed upon the wind his tresses, 
Bowed his hoaiy head in anguish. 
With a silent nod assented. 

Then up started Hiawatha, 
And with threatening look and gesture 
Laid his hand upon the black rock, 
On the fatal Wawbeek laid it. 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Rent the jutting crag asunder. 
Smote and crushed it into fragments. 
Hurled them madly at his father, 
The remorseful Mudjekeewis, 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 

But the ruler of the West-Wind 
Blew the fragments backward from him 
With the breathing of his nostrils, 
With the tempest of his anger. 
Blew them back at his assailant ; 
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, 
Dragged it with its roots and fibres 
From the margin of the meadow, 
From its ooze, the giant bulrush ; 
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha ! 

Then began the deadly conflict. 
Hand to hand among the mountains ; 
From his eyry screamed the eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle 
Sat upon the crags around them. 
Wheeling flapped his wings above them. 

Like a tall tree in the tempest 
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush ; 
And in masses huge and heavy 
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek ; 
Till the earth shook with the tumult 
And confusion of the battle, 
And the air was full of shoutings. 
And the thunder of the mountains. 
Starting, answered, " Baim-wawa ! " 

Back retreated Mudjekeewis, 



Rushing westward o'er the mountains. 
Stumbling westward down the moun- 
tains. 
Three whole days retreated fighting. 
Still pursued by Hiawatha 
To the doorways of the West- Wind, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the earth's remotest border. 
Where into the empty spaces 
Sinks the sun, as a flamingo 
Drops into her nest at nightfall. 
In the melancholy marshes. 

" Hold ! " at length cried Mudjekeewis, 
" Hold, my son, my Hiawatha ! 
'T is impossible to kill me. 
For you cannot kill the immortal. 
I have put you to this trial. 
But to know and prove your courage ; 
Now receive the prize of valor ! 

" Go back to your home and people. 
Live among them, toil among them, 
Cleanse the earth from all that harms it, 
Clear the fishing-grounds and rivers. 
Slay all monsters and magicians. 
All the Wendigoes, the giants, 
All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, 
As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew the Great Bear of the mountains. 

" And at last when Death draws near 
you, 
When the awful eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon you in the darkness, 
I will share my kingdom with you. 
Ruler shall you be thenceforward 
Of the Northwest- Wind, Keewaydin, 
Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin." 

Thus was fought that famous battle 
In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, 
In the days long since departed, 
In the kingdom of the West-Wind. 
Still the hunter sees its traces 
Scattered far o'er hill and valley ; 
Sees the giant bulrush growing 
By the ponds and water-courses, 
Sees the masses of the Wawbeek 
Lying still in every valley. 

Homeward now went Hiawatha ; 
Pleasant was the landscape round him. 
Pleasant was the air above him. 
For the bitterness of anger 
Had departed wholly from him. 
From his brain the thought of vengeance 
From his heart the burning fever. 



HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 305 


Only once his pace he slackened, 


V. 


Only once he paused or halted, 




Paused to purchase heads of arrows 


HIAWATHA'S FASTING. 


Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 




In the land of the Dacotahs, 


You shall hear how Hiawatha 


Where the Falls of Minnehaha 


Prayed and fasted in the forest, 


Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, 


Not for greater skill in hunting. 


Laugh and leap into the valley. 


Not for greater craft in fishing. 


There the ancient Arrow-maker 


Not for triumphs in the battle, 


Made his arrow-heads of sandstone, 


And renown among the warriors. 


Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 


But for profit of the people. 


Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 


For advantage of the nations. 


Smoothed and sharpened at the edges. 


First he built a lodge for fasting, 


Hard and polished, keen and costly. 


Built a wigwam in the forest. 


With him dwelt his dark-eyed daugh- 


By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 


ter, 


In the blithe and ])leasant S]Ming-time. 


Wayward as the Minnehaha, 


In the Moon of Leaves he built it, 


With her moods of shade and sun- 


And, with dreams and visions many, 


shine. 


Seven whole days and nights he fasted. 


Eyes that smiled and frowned alter- 


On the first day of his fasting 


nate, 


Through the leafy woods he wandered : 


Feet as rapid as the river. 


Saw the deer start from the thicket, 


Tresses flowing like the water, 


Saw the rabbit in his burrow, 


And as musical a laughter ; 


Heard the pheasant, Bena, drumming, 


And he named her from the river. 


Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 


From the waterfall he named her. 


Rattling in his hoard of acorns. 


Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 


Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 


Was it then for heads of arrows, 


Building nests among the pine-trees, 


Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 


And in flocks the wild-goose, Wawa, 


Arrow-heads of flint and jasper. 


Flying to the fen-lands northward. 


That my Hiawatha halted 


Whirring, wailing far above him. 


In the land of the Dacotahs } 


" Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding, 


Was it not to see the maiden, 


" Must our lives depend on these things ? " 


See the face of Laughing Water 


On the next day of his fisting 


Peeping from behind the curtain, 


By the river's brink he wandered. 


Hear the rustling of her garments 


Through the Muskoday, the meadow, 


From behind the waving curtain. 


Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 


As one sees the Minnehaha 


Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 


Gleaming, glancing through the branches, 


And the strawberry, Odahmin, 


As one heais the Laughing Water 


And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 


From behind its screen of branches ? 


And the grape-vine, the Bemahgut, 


Who shall say what thoughts and 


Trailing o'er the alder-branches, 


visions 


Filling all the air with fragrance ! 


Fill the fiery brains of young men ? 


" Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding. 


Who shall say what dreams of beauty 


" Must our lives depend on these things ? " 


Filled the heart of Hiawatha ? 


On the third day of his fasting 


All he told to old Nokomis, 


By the lake he sat and pondered. 


When he reached the lodge at sun- 


By the still, transparent water ; 


set. 


Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leaping, 


Was the meeting with his father. 


Scattering drops like beads of wampum. 


Was his fight with Mudjekeewis ; 


Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 


Not a word he said of arrows. 


Like a sunbeam in the water. 


Not a word of Laughing Water ! 
20 


Saw the pike, the Maskenozah, 



3o6 



THE SONG OF HJA IV A THA. 



And the herring, Okahahwis, 

And the Shawgashee, the craw-fish ! 

" Master of Life ! " he cried, desponding, 

" Must our Hves depend on these things ? " 

On the fourth day of his fasting 
In his lodge he lay exhausted ; 
From his couch of leaves and branches 
Gazing with half-ojK-n eyelids, 



Standing at the open doorway, 
Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
Looked with pity and compassion 
On his wasted form and features. 
And, in accents like the sighing 
Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, 
Said he, " O my Hiawatha ! 
All your prayers are heard in heaven, 




Full of shadowy dreams and visions, 
On the dizzy, swimming landscape. 
On the gleaming of the water. 
On the splendor of the sunset. 

And he saw a youth approaching. 
Dressed in garments green and yellow 
Coming through the purple twilight, 
Through the splendor of the sunset ; 
Plumes of green bent o'er his forehead, 
And his hair was soft and golden. 



For you pray not like the others ; 
Not for greater skill in hunting. 
Not for greater craft in fishing. 
Not for triumph in the battle. 
Nor renown among the warriors, 
But for profit of the people, 
For advantage of the nations. 

" From the Master of Life descending, 
I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 
Come to warn you and instruct you. 



HI A WA THA'S FASTING. 



307 



How by struggle and by labor 
Vou shall gain what you have prayed for. 
Rise up from your bed of branches, 
Rise, O youth, and wrestle with me ! " 

Faint with famine, Hiawatha 
Started from his bed of branches. 
From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin ; 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 
Felt new life and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 

So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset. 
And the more they strove and struggled. 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha ; 
Till the darkness fell around them. 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine-trees. 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a scream of pain and famine. 

" 'T is enough ! " then said Mondamin, 
Smiling upon Hiawatha, 
" But to-morrow, when the sun sets, 
I will come again to try you." 
And he vanished, and was seen not ; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks. 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not. 
Only saw that he had vanished. 
Leaving him alone and fainting. 
With the misty lake below him. 
And the reeling stars above him. 

On the morrow and the next day, 
When the sun through heaven descend- 
ing. 
Like a red and burning cinder 
From the hearth of the Great Spirit, 
Fell into the western waters, 
Came Mondamin for the trial. 
For the strife with Hiawatha ; 
Came as silent as the dew comes. 
From the empty air appearing. 
Into empty air returning. 
Taking shape when earth it touches, 
But invisible to all men 
In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset. 
Till the darkness fell around them. 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
F rnni her nest among the pine-trees. 



Uttered her loud cry of famine. 
And Mondamin paused to listen. 

Tall and beautiful he stood there, 
In his garments green and yellow ; 
To and fro his plumes above him 
Waved and nodded with his breathing. 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 

And he cried, " O Hiawatha ! 
Bravely have you wrestled with me. 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with me. 
And the Master of Life, who sees us, 
He will give to you the triumph ! " 

Then he smiled, and said : " To-mor- 
row 
Is the last day of your conflict, 
Is the last day of your fasting. 
You will conquer and o'ercome me ; 
Make a bed for me to lie in. 
Where the rain may fall upon me. 
Where the sun may come and warm me ; 
Strip these garments, green and yellow. 
Strip this nodding plumage from me, 
Lay me in the earth, and make it 
Soft and loose and light above me. 

" Let no hand disturb my slumber, 
Let no weed nor worm molest me, 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven. 
Come to haunt me and molest me, 
Only come yourself to watch me. 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 
Till I leap into the sunshine." 

And thus saying, he departed ; 
Peacefully slejjt Hiawatha, 
But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complaining, 
Perched upon his lonely wigwam ; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 
Heard the rivulet rippling near him. 
Talking to the darksome forest ; 
Heard the sighing of the branches, 
As they lifted and subsided 
At the passing of the night-wind. 
Heard them, as one hears in slumber 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whispers : 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting, 
Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest his hunger should o'ercome him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched not, 



3o8 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Only said to her, " Nokomis, 
Wait until the sun is setting, 
Till the darkness falls around us. 
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Crying from the desolate marshes, 
Tells us that the day is ended." 

Homeward weeping went Nokomis, 
Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 
Fearing lest his strength should fail 

him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 
He meanwhile sat weary waiting 
For the coming of Mondamin, 
Till the shadows, pointing eastward. 
Lengthened over field and forest. 
Till the sun dropped from the heaven. 
Floating on the waters westward. 
As a red leaf in the Autumn 
Falls and floats upon the water. 
Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold ! the young Mondamin, 
With his soft and shining tresses. 
With his garments green and yellow, 
With his long and glossy plumage. 
Stood and beckoned at the doorway. 
And as one in slumber walking. 
Pale and haggard, but undaunted. 
From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Mondamin. 

Round about him spun the landscape. 
Sky and forest reeled together, 
And his strong heart leaped within 

him, 
As the sturgeon leaps and struggles 
In a net to break its meshes. 
Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared the red horizon. 
And a hundred suns seemed looking 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 

Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 
Panting with his wild exertion, 
Palpitating with the struggle ; 
And before him, breathless, lifeless. 
Lay the youth, with hair dishevelled. 
Plumage torn, and garments tattered, 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 

And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and light above him ; 



And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moorlands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation. 
Gave a cry of pain and anguish ! 

Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and completed. 
But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Mondamin ; 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 
Was the grave where lay Mondamin, 
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine. 
Where his scattered plumes and gar- 
ments 
Faded in the rain and sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiawatha 
Go to wait and watch beside it ; 
Kept the dark mould soft above it, 
Kept it clean from weeds and insects. 
Drove away, with scoffs and shout- 
ings, 
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green feather 
From the earth shot slowly upward, 
Then another and another. 
And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty. 
With its shining robes about it, 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses ; 
And in rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, " It is Mondamin ! 
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin ! " 

Then he called to old Nokomis 
And lagoo, the great boaster, 
Showed them where the maize was grow- 

Told them of his wondrous vision, 
Of his wrestling and his triumph. 
Of this new gift to the nations. 
Which should be their food forever. 
And still later, when the Autumn 
Changed the long, green leaves to yel- 
low. 
And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yellow, 
Then the ripened ears he gathered. 
Stripped the withered husks from off 

them, 
As he once had stripped the wrestler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit. 



HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS. 309 


VI. 


Teach me tones as sweet and tender, 




Teach me songs as full of gladness ! " 


HIAWATHA'S FRIENDS. 


And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa, 




Sobbing, said, " Chibiabos, 


Two good friends had Hiawatha, 


Teach me tones as melancholy. 


Singled out from all the others," 


Teach me songs as full of sadness ! " 


Bound to him in closest union, 


All the many sounds of nature 


And to whom he gave the right hand 


Borrowed sweetness from his singing ; 


Of his heart, in joy or sorrow ; 


All the hearts of men were softened 


Chibiabos, the musician, 


By the pathos of his music ; 


And the very strong man, Kwasind. 


For he sang of peace and freedom, 


Straight between them ran the pathway, 


Sang of beauty, love, and longing; 


Never grew the grass upon it ; 


Sang of death, and life undying 


Singing birds, that utter falsehoods. 


In the Islands of the Blessed, 


Story-tellers, mischief-makers. 


In the kingdom of Ponemah, 


Found no eager ear to listen. 


In the land of the Hereafter. 


Could not breed ill-will between them. 


Very dear to Hiawatha 


For they kept each other's counsel. 


Was the gentle Chibiabos, 


Spake with naked hearts together. 


He the best of all musicians, 


Pondering much and much contriving 


He the sweetest of all singers ; 


How the tribes of men might prosper. 


For his gentleness he loved him, 


Most beloved by Hiawatha 


And the magic of his singing. 


Was the gentle Chibiabos, 


Dear, too, unto Hiawatha 


He the best of all musicians. 


Was the very strong man, Kwasind, 


He the sweetest of all singers. 


He the strongest of all mortals, 


Beautiful and childlike was he. 


He the mightiest among many ; 


Brave as man is, soft as woman. 


For his very strength he loved him, 


Pliant as a wand of willow, 


For his strength allied to goodness. 


Stately as a deer with antlers. 


Idle in his youth was Kwasind, 


When he sang, the village listened ; 


Very listless, dull, and dreamy. 


All the warriors gathered round him. 


Never played with other children. 


All the women came to hear him ; 


Never fished and never hunted, 


Now he stirred their souls to passion. 


Not like other children was he ; 


Now he melted them to pity. 


But they saw that much he fasted, 


From the hollow reeds he fashioned 


Much his Manito entreated. 


Flutes so musical and mellow. 


Much besought his Guardian Spirit. 


That the brook, the Sebowisha, 


" Lazy Kwasind ! " said his mother, 


Ceased to murmur in the woodland. 


" In my work you never help me ! 


That the wood-birds ceased from singing. 


In the Summer you are roaming 


And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 


Idly in the fields and forests ; 


Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree. 


In the Winter you are cowering 


And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 


O'er the firebrands in the wigwam ! 


Sat upright to look and listen. 


In the coldest days of Winter 


Ves, the brook, the Sebowisha, 


I must break the ice for fishing ; 


Pausing, said, " Chibiabos, 


With my nets you never help mc ! 


Teach my waves to flow in music, 


At the cloor my nets are hanging. 


Softly as your words in singing ! " 


Dripping, freezing with the water ; 


Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa, 


Go and wring them, Yenadizze ! 


Envious, said, " O Chibiabos, 


Go and dry them in the sunshine ! " 


Teach me tones as wild and wayward, 


Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind 


Teach me songs as full of frenzy ! " 


Rose, but made no angry answer ; 


Yes, the robin, the Opechee, 


From the lodge went forth in silence. 


foyous, said, " ( ) Chibiabos, 


Took the nets, that hung together, 



THE SONG OF HI A WA THa. 



Dripping, freezing at the doorway, 
Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, 
Like a wisp of straw he broke them. 
Could not wring tliem without breaking 
Such the strength was in Iiis fingers. 
" Lazy Kwasind ! " said his father, 
" In the hunt you never help me ; 
Every bow you touch is broken. 
Snapped asunder every arrow ; 



" O'er these logs we cannot clamber ; 
Not a woodchuck could get through 

them, 
Not a squirrel clamber o'er them ! " 
And straightway his pipe he lighted, 
And sat down to smoke and ponder. 
But before his pipe was finished, 
Lo ! the path was cleared before him ; 
All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, 




Yet come with me to the forest. 

You shall bring the hunting homeward." 

Down a narrow pass they wandered. 
Where a brooklet led them onward. 
Where the trail of deer and bison 
Marked the soft mud on the margin, 
Till they found all further passage 
Shut against them, barred securely 
By the trunks of trees uprooted. 
Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, 
And forbidding further passage. 

" We must go back," said the old man, 



To the right hand, to the left hand. 
Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 

" Lazy Kwasind ! " said the young 
men, 
As they sported in the meadow ; 
" Why stand idly looking at us, 
Leaning on the rock behind you ? 
Come and wrestle with the others, 
Let us pitch the quoit together ! " 

Lazy Kwasind made no answer. 
To their challenge made no answer, 



HIAWATHA'S SAILING. 



311 



Only rose, and, slowly turning, 
Seized the huge rock in his fingers, 
Tore it from its deep foundation, 
Poised it in the air a moment, 
Pitched it sheer into the river. 
Sheer into the swift Pauwating, 
Where it still is seen in Summer. 

Once as down that foaming river, 
Down the rapids of Pauwating, 
Kwasind sailed with his companions, 
In the stream he saw a beaver. 
Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers, 
Struggling with the rushing currents. 
Rising, sinking in the water. 

Without speaking, without pausing, 
Kwasind leaped into the river. 
Plunged beneath the bubbling surface. 
Through the whirlpools chased the 

beaver, 
Followed him among the islands. 
Stayed so long beneath the water. 
That his terrified companions 
Cried, " Alas ! good by to Kwasind ! 
We -shall nevermore see Kwasind ! " 
15ut he reappeared triumphant. 
And upon his shining shoulders 
Brought the beaver, dead and dripping, 
Brought the King of all the Beavers. 

And these two, as I have told you. 
Were the friends of Hiawatha, 
Chil:)iabos, the musician. 
And the very strong man, Kwasind. 
Long they lived in peace together, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much contriving 
How the tribes of men might prosper. 

VH. 

HIAWATHA'S SAILING. 

" Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree ! 
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-Tree ! 
Growing by the rushing river. 
Tall and stately in the valley ! , 
I a light canoe will build me. 
Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, 
That shall float upon the river, 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily ! 

" Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree ! 
Lay aside your white-skin wrapper. 
For the Summer-time is coming, 



And the sun is warm in heaven. 

And you need no white-skin wrapper ! " 

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha 
In the solitary forest. 
By the rushing Taquamenaw, 
When the birds were singing gayly. 
In the Moon of Leaves were singing. 
And the sun, from sleep awaking. 
Started up and said, " Behold me ! 
Geezis, the great Sun, behold me ! " 

And the tree with all its branches 
Rustled in the breeze of morning. 
Saying, with a sigh of patience, 
" Take my cloak, O Hiawatha ! " 

With his knife the tree he girdled ; 
Just beneath its lowest branches. 
Just above the roots, he cut it. 
Till the sap came oozing outward ; 
Down the trunk, from top to bottom, 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder. 
With a wooden wedge he raised it. 
Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. 

" Give me of your boughs, O Cedar ! 
Of your strong and pliant branches, 
My canoe to make more steady, 
Make more strong and firm beneath 
me ! " 

Through the summit of the Cedar 
Went a sound, a cry of horror, 
Went a murmur of resistance ; 
But it whispered, bending downward, 
" Take my boughs, O Hiawatha ! " 

Down he hewed the boughs of cedar. 
Shaped them straightway to a frame- 
work. 
Like two bows he formed and shaped 

them, 
Like two bended bows together. 

" Give me of your roots, O Tamarack ! 
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree ! 
My canoe to bind together. 
So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter. 
That the river may not wet me ! " 

And the Larch, with all its fibres, 
Shivered in the air of morning. 
Touched his forehead with its tassels, 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 
" Take them all, O Hiawatha ! " 

From the earth he tore the fibres, 
Tore the tough roots of the Larch-Tree, 
Closely sewed the bark together. 
Bound it closelv to the framework. 



312 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



" Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree ! 
Of your balsam and your resin, 
So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me ! " 

And the Fir-Tree, tall and sombre. 
Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, 
Rattled like a shore with pebbles, 
Answered wailing, answered weeping, 
" Take my balm, O Hiawatha ! " 



With his sleepy eyes looked at him, 
Shot his shining quills, like arrows, 
Saying, with a drowsy murmur, 
Through the tangle of his whiskers, 
" Take my quills, O Hiawatha ! " 

From the ground the quills he gath- 
ered. 
All the little shining arrows. 
Stained them red and blue and yellow, 
With the juice of roots and berries ; 




And he took the tears of balsam. 
Took the resin of the Fir-Tree, 
Smeared therewith each seam and fis- 
sure. 
Made each crevice safe from water. 

"Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog! 
All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog ! 
I will make a necklace of them, 
Make a girdle for mv beauty, 
And two stars to deck her bosom ! " 

From a hollow tree the Hedgehog 



Into his canoe he wrought them, 
Round its waist a shining girdle. 
Round its bows a gleaming necklace, 
On its breast two stars resplendent. 

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded 
In the valley, by the river. 
In the bosom of the forest ; 
And the forest's life was in it. 
All its mystery and its magic, 
All the lightness of the birch-tree, 
All the toughness of the cedar, 



HIAWATHA'S FISHING. 



313 



All the larch's supple sinews ; 


In his birch canoe exulting 


And it floated on the river 


All alone went Hiawatha. 


Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 


Through the clear, transparent water 


Like a yellow water-lily. 


He could see the fishes swimming 


Paddles none had Hiawatha, 


Far down in the depths below him ; 


Paddles none he had or needed, 


See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 


For his thoughts as paddles served him. 


Like a sunbeam in the water. 


And his wishes served to guide him ; 


See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, 


Swift or slow at will he glided. 


Like a spider on the bottom. 


Veered to right or left at pleasure. 


On the white and sandy bottom. 


Then he called aloud to Kwasind, 


At the stern sat Hiawatha, 


To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, 


With his fishing-line of cedar ; 


Saying, " Help me clear this river 


In his plumes the breeze of morning 


Of its sunken logs and sand-bars." 


Played as in the hemlock-branches ; 


Straight into the river Kwasind 


On the bows, with tail erected. 


Plunged as if he were an otter, 


Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo ; 


Dived as if he were a beaver. 


In his fur the breeze of morning 


Stood up to his waist in water. 


Played as in the prairie grasses. 


To his arm-pits in the river, 


On the white sand of the bottom 


Swam and shouted in the river. 


Lay the monster Mishe-Nama, 


Tugged at sunken logs and branches. 


Lay the sturgeon. King of Fishes ; 


With his hands he scooped the sand- 


Through his gills he breathed the water 


bars. 


With his fins he fanned and winnowed, 


With his feet the ooze and tangle. 


With his tail he swept the sand-floor. 


And thus sailed my Hiawatha 


There he lay in all his armor ; 


Down the rushing Taquamenaw, 


On each side a shield to guard him. 


Sailed through all its bends and wind- 


Plates of bone upon his forehead. 


ings, 


Down his sides and back and shoulders 


Sailed through all its deeps and shallows. 


Plates of bone with spines projecting ! 


While his friend, the strong man, Kwa- 


Painted was he with his war-paints. 


sind, 


Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, 


Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. 


Spots of brown and spots of sable ; 


Up and down the river went they. 


And he lay there on the bottom. 


In and out among its islands. 


Fanning with his fins of purple. 


Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar. 


As above him Hiawatha 


Dragged the dead trees from its chan- 


In his birch canoe came sailing. 


nel, 


With his fishing-line of cedar. 


Made its passage safe and certain. 


" Take my bait ! " cried Hiawatha, 


Made a pathway for the people, 


Down into the depths beneath him. 


From its springs among the mountains, 


" Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahma ! 


To the waters of Pauwating, 


Come up from below the water. 


To the bay of Taquamenaw. 


Let us see which is the stronger ! " 




And he dropped his line of cedar 


VHL 


Through the clear, transparent water, 




Waited vainly for an answer, 


Hiawatha's fishing. 


Long sat waiting for an answer. 




And repeating loud and louder. 


Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 


" Take my bait, O King of Fishes ! " 


On the Shining Big-Sea- Water, 


Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 


With his fishing-line of cedar. 


Fanning slowly in the water. 


Of the twisted Ijark of cedar. 


Looking up at Hiawatha, 


Forth to catch the sturgeon Nahma, 


Listening to his call and clamor. 


Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 


His unnecessary tumult, 



314 



77^5 SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Till he wearied of the shouting ; 

And he said to the Kenozha, 

To the pike, the Maskenozha, 

" Take the bait of this rude fellow, 

Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

[n his fingers Hiawatha 

Felt the loose line jerk and tighten ; 

As he drew it in, it tugged so 

That the birch canoe sto'id endwise. 



Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
To the bream, with scales of crimson, 
" Take the bait of this great boaster, 
Break the line of Hiawatha ! " 

Slowly upward, wavering, gleaming, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 




Like a birch log in the water, 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Perched and frisking on the summit. 

Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him. 
And he shouted through the water, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are but the pike, Kenozha, 
You are not the fish I wanted. 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 



Seized the line of Hiawatha, 
Swung with all his weight ujjon it. 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles. 
Round and round in gurgling eddies, 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches. 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins. 
But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water. 
Lifting up his disk refulgent. 



HIAWATHA'S FISH /AG. 



315 



Loud he shouted in derision, 
" Esa ! esa ! shame upon you ! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
You are not the fish I wanted. 
You are not the King of Fishes ! " 

Slowly downward, wavering, gleaming, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish. 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha, 
Heard his challenge of defiance, 
The unnecessary tumult. 
Ringing far across the water. 

From the white sand of the bottom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 
Quivering in each nerve and fibre. 
Clashing all his plates of armor. 
Gleaming bright with all his war-paint ; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine, 
Opened his great jaws, and swallowed 
Both canoe and Hiawatha. 

Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rapids, 
Found himself in utter darkness. 
Groped about in helpless wonder. 
Till he felt a great heart beating. 
Throbbing in that utter darkness. 

And he smote it in his anger. 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and fibre, 
Heard the water gurgle round him 
As he leaped and staggered through it, 
Sick at heart, and faint and weary. 

Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch-canoe for safety. 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion. 
Forth he might be hurled and perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chattered very gayly, 
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labor was completed. 

Then said Hiawatha to him, 
" O my little friend, the squirrel. 
Bravely have you toiled to help me ; 
Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 
And the name which now he gives you ; 
For hereafter and forever 
Buys shall call you Adjidaumo, 
Tail-in-air the boys shall cal' you ! " 



And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water. 
Then was still, and drifted landward 
Till he grated on the ])ebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 
Heard him grate upon the margin. 
Felt him strand upon the pebljles. 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin. 

Then he heard a clang and flapping, 
As of many wings asseml)hng. 
Heard a screaming and confusion. 
As of birds of prey contending. 
Saw a gleam of light above him. 
Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
Saw the glittering eyes of sea-gulls. 
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the opening. 
Heard them saying to each other, 
" 'T is our brother, Hiawatha ! " 

And he shouted from below them. 
Cried exulting from the caverns : 

" O ye sea-gulls ! O my brothers ! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma ; 
Make the rifts a little larger. 
With your claws the openings widen, 
Set me free from this dark prison. 
And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achievements, 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls. 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratchers ! " 

And the wild and clamorous sea-gulls 
Toiled with beak and claws together, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 
And from peril and from prison. 
From the body of the sturgeon, 
From the peril of the water. 
They released my Hiawatha. 

He was standing near his wigwam, 
On the margin of the water. 
And he called to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles. 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 

" I have slain the Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain the King of Fishes ! " said he ; 
" Look ! the sea-gulls feed upon him, 
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea-gulls ; 
Drive them not away, Nokomis, 
They have saved me from great peril 
In the bodv of the sturgeon, 



3i6 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Wait ufitil their meal is ended, 
Till their craws are full with feasting, 
Till they homeward fly, at sunset. 
To their nests among the marshes ; 
Then bring all your pots and kettles, 
And make oil for us in Winter." 

And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, 
Rose above the tranquil water, 
Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls. 
From their banquet rose with clamor. 
And across the fiery sunset 
Winged their way to far-off islands. 
To their nests among the rushes. 

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 
And Nokomis to her labor. 
Toiling patient in the moonlight. 
Till the sun and moon changed places. 
Till the sky was red with sunrise. 
And Kayoshk, the hungry sea-gulls, 
Came back from the reedy islands, 
Clamorous for their morning banquet. 

Three whole days and nights alternate 
Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 
Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 
Till the waves washed through the rib- 
bones, 
Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 
And upon the sands lay nothing 
But the skeleton of Nahma. 

IX. 

HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Of the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
Stood Nokomis, the old woman. 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
O'er the water pointing westward, 
To the purple clouds of sunset. 

Fiercely the red sun descending 
Burned his way along the heavens. 
Set the sky on fire behind him. 
As war-parties, when retreating. 
Burn the prairies on their war-trail ; 
And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward, 
Suddenly starting from his ambush. 
Followed fast those bloody footprints, 
Followed in that fiery war-trail. 
With its glare upon his features. 

And Nokomis, the old woman. 
Pointing with her finger westward. 



Spake these words to Hiawatha : 
" Yonder dwells the great Pearl- Feather. 
Megissogwon, the Magician, 
Manito of Wealth and Wampum, 
Guarded by his fiery serpents. 
Guarded by the black pitch-water. 
You can see his fiery serpents, 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents. 
Coiling, playing in the water ; 
You can see the black pitch-water 
Stretching far away beyond them. 
To the purple clouds of sunset ! 

" He it was who slew my father. 
By his wicked wiles and cunning. 
When he from the moon descended, 
When he came on earth to seek me. 
He, the mightiest of Magicians, 
Sends the fever from the marshes. 
Sends the pestilential vapors, 
Sends the poisonous exhalations. 
Sends the white fog from the fen-lands, 
Sends disease and death among us ! 

" Take your bow, O Hiawatha, 
Take your arrows, jasper-headed, 
Take your war-club, Puggawaugun, 
And your mittens, Minjekahwun, 
And your birch canoe for sailing, 
And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, 
So to smear its sides, that swiftly 
You may pass the black pitch-water ; 
Slay this merciless magician. 
Save the people from the fever 
That he breathes across the fen-lands. 
And avenge my father's murder ! " 

Straightway then my Hiawatha 
Armed himself with his all war-gear, 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing ; 
With his palm its sides he patted. 
Said with glee, " Cheemaun, my darling, 
O my Birch-Canoe ! leap forward, 
Where you see the fiery serpents, 
Where you see the black pitch-water ! " 

Forward leaped Cheemaun exulting. 
And the noble Hiawatha 
Sang his war-song wild and woful. 
And above him the war-eagle. 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle. 
Master of all fowls with feathers. 
Screamed and hurtled through the 
heavens. 

Soon he reached the fiery serpents, 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Lying huge upon the water, 



HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL-FEATHER. 



317 



Sparkling, rippling in the water, 
Lying coiled across the passage, 
With their blazing crests uplifted, 
Breathing fiery fogs and vapors. 
So that none could pass beyond them. 

But the fearless Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, and spake in this wise : 
" Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, 
Let me go upon my journey ! " 
And they answered, hissing fiercely, 



Dead lay all the fiery serpents, 
And among them Hiawatha 
Harmless sailed, and cried exulting : 
" Onward, O Cheemaun, my darling ! 
Onward to the black pitch-water ! " 

Then he took the oil of Nahma, 
And the bows and sides anointed. 
Smeared them well with oil, that swiftly 
He might pass the black pitch-water. 

All night long he sailed upon it. 




With their fiery breath made answer : 
" Back, go back ! O Shaugodaya ! 
Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! " 

Then the angry Hiawatha 
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree. 
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, 
Shot them fast among the serpents ; 
Every twanging of the bow-string 
Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 
Every whizzing of an arrow 
Was a death-song of Kenabeek. 

Weltering in the bloody water, 



Sailed upon that sluggisli water. 
Covered with its mould of ages, 
Black with rotting water-rushes, 
Rank with flags and leaves of lilies. 
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal. 
Lighted by the shimmering moonlight, 
And by will-o'-the-wisps illumined, 
Fires by ghosts of dead men kindled. 
In their weary night-encampments. 

All the air was white with moonlight, 
All the water black with shadow, 
And around him the Suggcina, 



3l8 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


The mosquito, sang his war-song. 


" Well I know you, Hiawatha ! " 


And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, 


Cried he in a voice of thunder, 


Waved their torches to mislead him ; 


In a tone of loud derision. 


And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, 


" Hasten back, O Shaugodaya ! 


Thrust his head into the moonlight, 


Hasten back among the women. 


Fixed his yellow eyes upon him. 


Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart ! 


Sobbed and sank beneath the surface ; 


I will slay you as you stand there, 


And anon a thousand whistles. 


As of old I slew her father ! " 


Answered over all the fen-lands, 


But my Hiawatha answered, 


And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 


Nothing daunted, fearing nothing : 


Far off on the reedy margin, 


" Big words do not smite like war-clubs, 


Heralded the hero's coming. 


Boastful breath is not a bow-string, 


Westward thus fared Hiawatha, 


Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, 


Toward the realm of Megissogwon, 


Deeds are better things than words are. 


Toward the land of the Pearl-Feather, 


Actions mightier than boastings ! " 


Till the level moon stared at him. 


Then began the greatest battle 


In his face stared pale and haggard, 


That the sun had ever looked on. 


Till the sun was hot behind him, 


That the war-birds ever witnessed. 


Till it burned upon his shoulders. 


All a Summer's day it lasted, 


And before him on the upland 


From the sunrise to the sunset ; 


He could see the Shining Wigwam 


For the shafts of Hiawatha 


Of the Manito of Wampum, 


Harmless hit the shirt of wampum, 


Of the mightiest of Magicians. 


Harmless fell the blows he dealt it 


Then once more Cheemaun he patted, 


With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 


To his birch-canoe said, " Onward ! " 


Harmless fell the heavy war-club ; 


And it stirred in all its fibres, 


It could dash the rocks asunder. 


And with one great bound of triumph 


But it could not break the meshes 


Leaped across the water-lilies. 


Of that magic shirt of wampum. 


Leaped through tangled flags and rushes. 


Till at sunset Hiawatha, 


And upon the beach beyond them 


Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, 


Dry-shod landed Hiawatha. 


Wounded, weary, and desponding, 


Straight he took his bow of ash-tree, 


With his mighty war-club broken. 


On the sand one end he rested. 


With his mittens torn and tattered. 


With his knee he pressed the middle. 


And three useless arrows only. 


Stretched the faithful bow-string tighter. 


Paused to rest beneath a pine-tree, 


Took an arrow, jasper-headed. 


From whose branches trailed the mosses, 


Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, 


And whose trunk was coated over 


Sent it singing as a herald, 


With the Dead-man's Moccasin-leather, 


As a bearer of his message. 


With the fungus white and yellow. 


Of his challenge loud and lofty : 


Suddenly from the boughs above him 


" Come forth from your lodge, Pearl- 


Sang the Mama, the woodpecker : 


Feather ! 


" Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, 


Hiawatha waits your coming ! " 


At the head of Megissogwon, 


Straightway from the Shining Wigwam 


Strike the tuft of hair upon it. 


Came the mighty Megissogwon, 


At their roots the long black tresses ; 


Tall of stature, broad of shoulder, 


There alone can he be wounded ! " 


Dark and terrible in aspect. 


Winged with feathers tipped with 


Clad from head to foot in wampum, 


jasper. 


Armed with all his warlike weapons, 


Swift flew Hiawatha's arrow. 


Painted like the sky of morning. 


Just as Megissogwon, stooping. 


Streaked with crimson, blue, and yellow, 


Raised a heavy stone to throw it. 


Crested with great eagle feathers. 


Full upon the crown it struck him. 


Streaming upward, streaming outward. 


At the roots of his long tresses, 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 319 


And he reeled and staggered forward, 


Homeward through the weltering ser- 


Plunging like a wounded bison, 


pents, 


Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison. 


With the trophies of the battle. 


When the snow is on the prairie. 


With a shout and song of triumph. 


Swifter flew the second arrow, 


On the shore stood old Nokomis, 


In the pathway of the othe". 


On the shore stood Chibiabos, 


Piercing deeper than the other. 


And the very strong man, Kwasind, 


Wounded sorer than the other ; 


Waiting for the hero's coming. 


And the knees of Megissogwon 


Listening to his song of triumph. 


Shook like windy reeds beneath him, 


And the people of the village 


Bent and trembled like the rushes. 


Welcomed him with songs and dances, 


But the third and latest arrow 


Made a joyous feast, and shouted : 


Swiftest flew, and wounded sorest. 


" Honor be to Hiawatha ! 


And the mighty Megissogwon 


He has slain the great Pearl -Feather, 


Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, 


Slain the mightiest of Magicians, 


Saw the eyes of Death glare at him. 


Him, who sent the fiery fever, 


Heard his voice call in the darkness ; 


Sent the white fog from the fen-lands, 


At the feet of Hiawatha 


Sent disease and death among us ! " 


Lifeless lay the great Pearl-Feather, 


Ever dear to Hiawatha 


Lay the mightiest of Magicians. 


Was the memory of Mama ! 


Then the grateful Hiawatha 


And in token of his friendship. 


Called the Mama, the woodpecker. 


As a mark of his remembrance. 


From his perch among the branches 


He adorned and decked his pipe-stem 


Of the melancholy pine-tree, 


With the crimson tuft of feathers. 


And, in honor of his service. 


With the blood-red crest of Mama. 


Stained with blood the tuft of feathers 


But the wealth of Megissogwon, 


On the little head of Mama ; 


All the trophies of the battle, 


Even to this day he wears it, 


He divided with his people. 


Wears the tuft of. crimson feathers. 


Shared it equally among them. 


As a symbol of his service. 




Then he stripped the shirt of wampum 


X. 


From the back of Megissogwon, 




As a trophy of the battle. 


Hiawatha's wooing. 


As a signal of his conquest. 




On the shore he left the body, 


" As unto the bow the cord is. 


Half on land and half in water. 


So unto the man is woman. 


In the sand his feet were buried. 


Though she bends him, she obeys him. 


And his face was in the water. 


Though she draws him, yet she fol- 


And above him, wheeled and clamored 


lows. 


The Keneu, the great war-eagle. 


Useless each without the other ! " 


Sailing round in narrower circles. 


Thus the youthful Hiawatha 


Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. 


Said within himself and pondered, 


From the wigwam Hiawatha 


Much perplexed by various feelings, 


Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, 


Listless, longing, hoping, fearing. 


All his wealth of skins and wampum. 


Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 


Furs of bison and of beaver. 


Of the lovely Laughing Water, 


Furs of sable and of ermine, 


In the land of the Dacotahs. 


Wampum belts and strings and pouches. 


" Wed a maiden of your people," 


Quivers wrought with beads of wampum, 


Warning said the old Nokomis ; 


Filled with arrows, silver-headed. 


" Go not eastward, go not westward. 


Homeward then he sailed exulting, 


For a stranger, whom we know not ! 


Homeward through the black pitch- 


Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 


water. 


Is a neighbor's homely daughter. 



320 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers ! " 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 
But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight ! " 

Gravely then said old Nokomis : 
" Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman. 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling ; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers. 
Heart and hand that move together. 
Feet that run on willing errands ! " 

Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
" In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam. 
She shall run upon your errands. 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people ! " 

Still dissuading said Nokomis : 
" Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us. 
There are feuds yet unforgotten. 
Wounds that ache and still may open ! " 

Laughing answered Hiawatha : 
" For that reason, if no other. 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united. 
That old feuds might be forgotten. 
And old wounds be healed forever ! " 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women ; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 
Through interminable forests. 
Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic. 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And his heart outrun his footsteps ; 
And he journeyed without resting. 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter. 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
" Pleasant is the sound ! " he murmured, 
" Pleasant is the voice that calls me ! " 



On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
But they saw not Hiawatha ; 
To his bow he whispered, " Fail not ! " 
To his arrow whispered, " Swerve not ! " 
Sent it singing on its errand. 
To the red heart of the roebuck ; 
Threw the deer across his shoulder. 
And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper. 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty, 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 
And the inaiden's of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat there, 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison. 
On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 
Shot the wild-goose, flying southward, 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
Thinking of the great war-parties. 
How they came to buy his arrows. 
Could not fight without his arrows. 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ! 
Now the men were all like women, 
Only used their tongues for weapons ! 

She was thinking of a hunter, 
From another tribe and country, 
Young and tall and veiy handsome, 
Who one morning, in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father's arrows. 
Sat and rested in the wigwam. 
Lingered long about the doorway. 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him. 
Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha .-' 
On the mat her hands lay idle. 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard a 
footstep. 
Heard a rustling in the branches. 
And with glowing cheek and forehead. 
With the deer upon his shoulders, 



HIAWATHA'S WOOhYG. 



321 



Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 
Bade him enter at the doorway, 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
" Hiawatha, you are welcome ! " 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden. 



Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished. 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood. 
Listened while the guest was speaking. 



-r ^' ^' \iV'%^^^1^'\ 



\ H^\ 




Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
And the maiden looked up at him. 
Looked up from her mat of rushes. 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
" You are welcome, Hiawatha ! " 
Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened. 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains. 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter. 



Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened. 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty 



322 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


In the land of the Ojibways, 


Wanders piping through the village. 


In the pleasant land and peaceful. 


Beckons to the fairest maiden. 


" After many years of warfare, 


And she follows where he leads her. 


Many years of strife and bloodshed, 


Leaving all things for the stranger ! " 


There is peace between the Ojibways 


Pleasant was the journey homeward, 


And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 


Through interminable forests. 


Thus continued Hiawatha, 


Over meadow, over mountain. 


And then added, speaking slowly. 


Over river, hill, and hollow. 


" That this peace may last forever. 


Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 


And our hands be clasped more closely, 


Though they journeyed very slowly. 


And our hearts be more united, 


Though his pace he checked and slack- 


Give me as my wife this maiden. 


ened 


Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 


To the steps of Laughing Water. 


Loveliest of Dacotah women ! " 


Over wide and rushing rivers 


And the ancient Arrow-maker 


In his arms he bore the maiden ; 


Paused a moment ere he answered, 


Light he thought her as a feather, 


Smoked a little while in silence, 


As the plume upon his head-gear ; 


Looked at Hiawatha proudly. 


Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 


Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 


Bent aside the swaying branches. 


And made answer veiy gravely : 


Made at night a lodge of branches. 


" Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 


And a bed with boughs of hemlock. 


Let your heart speak, Minnehaha ! " 


And a fire before the doorway 


And the lovely Laughing Water 


With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 


Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, 


All the travelling winds went with 


Neither willing nor reluctant, 


them, 


As she went to Hiawatha, 


O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 


Softly took the seat beside him. 


All the stars of night looked at them. 


While she said, and blushed to say it, 


Watched with sleepless eyes their slum- 


" I will follow you, my husband ! " 


ber ; 


This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 


From his ambush in the oak-tree 


Thus it was he won the daughter 


Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 


Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 


Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 


In the land of the Dacotahs ! 


And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 


From the wigwam he departed. 


Scampered from the path before them. 


Leading with him Laughing Water ; 


Peering, peeping from his burrow. 


Hand in hand they went together, 


Sat erect upon his haunches. 


Through the woodland and the meadow. 


Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 


Left the old man standing lonely 


Pleasant was the journey homeward ! 


At the doorway of his wigwam. 


All the birds sang loud and sweetly 


Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 


Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; 


Calling to them from the distance. 


Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 


Crying to them from afar-off, 


" Happy are you, Hiawatha, 


" Fare thee well, O Minnehaha ! " 


Having such a wife to love you ! " 


And the ancient Arrow-maker 


Sang the robin, the Opechee, 


Turned again unto his labor. 


" Happy are you. Laughing Water, 


Sat down by his sunny doorway. 


Having such a noble husband ! " 


Murmuring to himself, and saying : 


From the sky the sun benignant 


" Thus it is our daughters leave us, 


Looked upon them through the branches, 


Those we love, and those who love us ! 


Saying to them, " O my children. 


Just when they have learned to help us. 


Love is sunshine, hate is shadow. 


When we are old and lean upon them. 


Life is checkered shade and sunshine. 


Comes a youth with flaunting feathers. 


Rule by love, O Hiawatha ! " 


With his flute of reeds, a stranger 


From the sky the moon looked at them. 



HI A IV A THa 'S WEDDING-FEAS T. 



323 



Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
Whispered to them, " O my children. 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble ; 
Half is mine, although I follow ; 
Rule by patience. Laughing Water ! " 

Thus it was they journeyed homeward ; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, fire- 
light, 
Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
In the land of handsome women. 

XL 

Hiawatha's wedding-feast. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
How the handsome Yenadizze 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
How the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the sweetest of musicians. 
Sang his songs of love and longing ; 
How lagoo, the great boaster. 
He the marvellous story-teller. 
Told his tales of strange adventure. 
That the feast might be more joyous. 
That the time might pass more gayly, 
And the guests be more contented. 

Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis 
Made at Hiawatha's wedding ; 
All the bowls were made of bass-wood, 
White and polished very smoothly. 
All the spoons of horn of bison. 
Black and polished very smoothly. 

She had sent through all the village 
Messengers with wands of willow. 
As a sign of invitation, 
As a token of the feasting ; 
And the wedding guests assembled. 
Clad in all their richest raiment. 
Robes of fur and belts of wampum. 
Splendid with their paint and plumage, 
JJeautiful with beads and tassels. 

First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, 
And the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Caught and cooked by old Nokomis ; 
Then on pemican they feasted, 
I'emican and buffalo marrow, 



Haunch of deer and hump of bison. 
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, 
And the wild rice of the river. 

But the gracious Hiawatha, 
And the lovely Laughing Water, 
And the careful old Nokomis, 
Tasted not the food before them. 
Only waited on the others. 
Only served their guests in silence. 

And when all the guests had finished, 
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy. 
From an ample pouch of otter. 
Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking 
With tobacco from the South-land, 
Mixed with bark of the red willow. 
And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. 

Then she said, " O Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Dance for us your merry dances. 
Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, 
That the feast may be more joyous. 
That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more contented ! " 

Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He the idle Yenadizze, 
He the merry mischief-maker. 
Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, 
Rose among the guests assembled. 

Skilled was he in sports and pastimes. 
In the merry dance of snow-shoes. 
In the play of quoits and ball-play ; 
Skilled was he in games of hazard, 
In all games of skill and hazard, 
Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, 
Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. 

Though the warriors called him Faint- 
Heart, 
Called him coward, Shaugodaya, 
Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, 
Little heeded he their jesting. 
Little cared he for their insults. 
For the women and the maidens 
Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

He was dressed in shirt of doe-skin. 
White and soft, and fringed with ermine, 
All inwrought with beads of wampum ; 
He was dressed in deer-skin leggings. 
Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine 
And in moccasins of buck-skin. 
Thick with quills and beads embroidered. 
On his head were plumes of swan's down, 
On his heels were tails of fo.xes, 
In one hand a fan of feathers, 
And a pipe was in the other. 



324 



THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 



Barred with streaks of red and yellow, 
Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, 
Shone the face of Pau-puk-Keewis. 
From his forehead fell his tresses, 
Smooth, and parted like a woman's, 
Shining bright with oil, and plaited, 
Hung with braids of scented grasses. 
As among the guests assembled, 
To the sound of flutes and singing, 
To the sound of drums and voices. 



Till the dust and wind together 
Swept in eddies round about him. 

Then along the sandy margin 
Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, 
On he sped with frenzied gestures. 
Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it 
Wildly in the air around him ; 
Till the wind became a whirlwind, 
Till the sand was blown and sifted 
Tike great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, 




Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
And began his mystic dances. 

First he danced a solemn measure. 
Very slow in step and gesture. 
In and out among the pine-trees. 
Through the shadows and the sui 

shine. 
Treading softly like a panther. 
Then more swiftly and still swifter, 
Whirling, spinning round in circles. 
Leaping o'er the guests assembled. 
Eddying round and round the wigwam. 
Till the leaves went whirling with him. 



Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, 
Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo ! 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Danced his Beggar's Dance to please 

them. 
And, returning, sat down laughing 
There among the guests assembled, 
Sat and fanned himself serenely 
With his fan of turkey-feathers. 

Then they said to Chibiabos, 
To the friend of Hiawatha, 
To the sweetest of all singers, 
To the best of all musicians. 



HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST. 325 


* Sing to us, Chibiabos ! 


He the friend of old Nokomis, 


Songs of love and songs of longing, 


Jealous of the sweet musician. 


That the feast may be more joyous, 


Jealous of the applause they gave him, 


That the time may pass more gayly, 


Saw in all the eyes around him. 


And our guests be more contented ! " 


Saw in all their looks and gestures. 


And the gentle Chibiabos 


That the wedding guests assembled 


Sang in accents sweet and tender. 


Longed to hear his pleasant stories. 


Sang in tones of deep emotion, 


His immeasurable falsehoods. 


Songs of love and songs of longing ; 


Very boastful was lagoo ; 


Looking still at Hiawatha, 


Never heard he an adventure 


Looking at fair Laughing Water, 


But himself had met a greater ; 


Sang he softly, sang in this wise : 


Never any deed of daring 


" Onaway ! Awake, beloved ! 


But himself had done a bolder ; 


Thou the wild-flower of the forest ! 


Never any marvellous story 


Thou the wild-bird of the prairie ! 


But himself could tell a stranger. 


Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like ! 


Would you listen to his boasting, 


" If thou only lookest at me, 


Would you only give him credence. 


1 am happy, I am happy. 


No one ever shot an arrow 


As the lilies of the prairie 


Half so far and high as he had ; 


When they feel the dew upon them ! 


Ever caught so many fishes. 


" Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance 


Ever killed so many reindeer, 


Of the wild-flowers in the morning, 


Ever trapped so many beaver ! 


As their fragrance is at evening. 


None could run so fast as he could, 


In the Moon when leaves are falling. 


None could dive so deep as he could. 


" Does not all the blood within me 


None could swim so far as he could ; 


Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee. 


None had made so many journeys. 


As the springs to meet the sunshine. 


None had seen so many wonders. 


In the Moon when nights are brightest ? 


As this wonderful lagoo. 


" Onaway ! my heart sings to thee. 


As this marvellous story-teller ! 


Sings with joy when thou art near me. 


Thus his name became a by-word 


As the sighing, singing branches 


And a jest among the people ; 


In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries ! 


And whene'er a boastful hunter 


" When thou art not pleased, beloved. 


Praised his own address too highly. 


Then my heart is sad and darkened, 


Or a warrior, home returning. 


As the shining river darkens 


Talked too much of his achievements, 


When the clouds drop shadows on it ! 


All his hearers cried, " lagoo ! 


" When thou smilest, my beloved. 


Here 's lagoo come among us ! " 


Then my troubled heart is brightened, 


He it was who carved the cradle 


As in sunshine gleam the ripples 


Of the little Hiawatha, 


That the cold wind makes in rivers. 


Carved its framework out of linden. 


" Smiles the earth, and smile the 


Bound it strong with reindeer sinews ; 


waters. 


He it was who taught him later 


Smile the cloudless skies above us, 


How to make his bows and arrows, 


But I lose the way of smiling 


How to make the bows of ash-tree, 


When thou art no longer near me ! 


And the arrows of the oak-tree. 


" I myself, myself ! behold me ! 


So among the guests assembled 


Blood of my beating heart, behold me ! 


At my Hiawatha's wedding 


awake, awake, beloved ! 


Sat lagoo, old and ugly. 


Onaway ! awake, beloved ! " 


Sat the marvellous story-teller. 


Thus the gentle Chibiabos 


And they said, " good lagoo. 


Sang his song of love and longing ; 


Tell us now a tale of wonder, 


And lagoo, the great boaster. 


Tell us of some strange adventure. 


He the marvellous story-teller, 


That the feast may be more joyous, 



326 



THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 



That the time may pass more gayly, 


Married brave and haughty husbands ; 


And our guests be more contented ! " 


Only Oweenee, the youngest. 


And lagoo answered straightway, 


Laughed and flouted all her lovers. 


" You shall hear a tale of wonder, 


All her young and handsome suitors. 


You shall hear the strange adventures 


And then married old Osseo, 


Of Osseo, the Magician, 


Old Osseo, poor and ugly. 


From the Evening Star descended." 


Broken with age and weak with coughing, 




Always coughing like a squirrel. 


XII. 


" Ah, but beautiful within him 




Was the spirit of Osseo, 


THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 


From the Evening Star descended. 




Star of Evening, Star of Woman, 


Can it be the sun descending 


Star of tenderness and passion ! 


O'er the level plain of water ? 


All its fire was in his bosom, 


Or the Red Swan floating, flying. 


All its beauty in his spirit. 


Wounded by the magic arrow, 


All its mystery in his being. 


Staining all the waves with crimson, 


All its splendor in his language ! 


With the crimson of its life-blood. 


" And her lovers, the rejected. 


Filling all the air with splendor. 


Handsome men with belts of wampum. 


With the splendor of its plumage ? 


Handsome men with paint and feathers. 


Yes ; it is the sun descending. 


Pointed at her in derision, 


Sinking down into the water ; 


Followed her with jest and laughter. 


All the sky is stained with purple, 


But she said : ' I care not for you, 


All the water flushed with crimson ! 


Care not for your belts of wampum. 


No ; it is the Red*Swan floating. 


Care not for your paint and feathers. 


Diving down beneath the water ; 


Care not for your jests and laughter ; 


To the sky its wings are lifted. 


I am happy with Osseo ! ' 


With its blood the waves are reddened ! 


" Once to some great feast invited, 


Over it the Star of Evening 


Through the damp and dusk of evening 


Melts and trembles through the purple. 


Walked together the ten sisters, 


Hangs suspended in the twilight. 


Walked together with their husbands ; 


No ; it is a bead of wampum 


Slowly followed old Osseo, 


On the robes of the Great Spirit, 


With fair Oweenee beside him ; 


As he passes through the twilight. 


All the others chatted gayly. 


Walks in silence through the heavens. 


These two only walked in silence. 


This with joy beheld lagoo 


" At the western sky Osseo 


And he said in haste : " Behold it ! 


Gazed intent, as if imploring. 


See the sacred Star of Evening ! 


Often stopped and gazed imploring 


You shall hear a tale of wonder, 


At the trembling Star of Evening, 


Hear the story of Osseo, 


At the tender Star of Woman ; 


Son of the Evening Star, Osseo ! 


And they heard him murmur softly, 


" Once, in days no more remembered, 


' Ah, showain nemeshin, A^osa ! 


Ages nearer the beginning. 


Pity, pity me, my father ! ' 


When the heavens were closer to us, 


" ' Listen ! ' said the eldest sister, 


And the Gods were more familiar. 


• He is praying to his father ! 


In the North-land lived a hunter, 


What a pity that the old man 


With ten young and comely daughters, 


Does not stumble in the pathway. 


Tall and lithe as wands of willow ; 


Does not break his neck by falling ! ' 


Only Oweenee, the youngest. 


And they laughed till all the forest 


She the wilful and the wayward. 


Rang with their unseemly laughter. 


She the silent, dreamy maiden, 


" On their pathway through the wood- 


Was the fairest of the sisters. 


lands 


" All these women married warriors. 


Lay an oak, by storms uprooted, 



THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 



327 



Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, 
Buried half in leaves and mosses, 
Mouldering, crumbling, huge and 

low. 
And Osseo, when he saw it, 
Gave a shout, a cry of anguish. 
Leaped into its yawning cavern. 
At one end went in an old man, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ; 



hoi- 



Laughed until the echoing forest 
Rang with their unseemly laughter. 
" But Osseo turned not from her. 
Walked with slower step beside her. 
Took her hand, as brown and withered 
As an oak-leaf is in Winter, 
Called her sweetheart, Nenemoosha, 
Soothed her with soft words of kind- 




From the other came a young man, 
Tall and straight and strong and hand- 
some. 
" Thus Osseo was transfigured. 
Thus restored to youth and beauty ; 
But, alas for good Osseo, 
And for Oweenee, the faithful ! 
Strangely, too, was she transfigured. 
Changed into a weak old woman. 
With a staff she tottered onward, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ! 
And the sisters and their husbands 



Till they reached the lodge of feasting. 
Till they sat down in the wigwam, 
Sacred to the Star of Evening, 
To the tender Star of Woman. 

" Wrapt in visions, lost in dreaming. 
At the banquet sat Osseo ; 
All were merry, all were happy. 
All were joyous but Osseo. 
Neither food nor drink he tasted, 
Neither did he speak nor listen, 
But as one bewildered sat he. 
Looking dreamily and sadly, 



328 



THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 



First at Ovveenee, then upward 
At the gleaming sky above them. 

" Then a voice was heard, a whisper, 
Coming from the starry distance, 
Coming from the empty vastness, 
Low, and musical, and tender ; 
And the voice said : ' O Osseo ! 
O my son, my best beloved ! 
Broken are the spells that bound you, 
All the charms of the magicians, 
All the magic powers of evil ; 
Come to me ; ascend, Osseo ! 

" ' Taste the food that stands before 
you : 
It is blessed and enchanted, 
It has magic virtues in it. 
It will change you to a spirit. 
All your bowls and all your kettles 
Shall be wood and clay no longer ; 
But the bowls be changed to wampum, 
And the kettles shall be silver ; 
They shall shine like shells of scarlet, 
Like the fire shall gleam and glimmer. 

" ' And the women shall no longer 
Bear the dreary doom of labor, 
But be changed to birds, and glisten 
With the beauty of the starlight, 
Painted with the dusky splendors 
Of the skies and clouds of evening ! ' 

" What Osseo heard as whispers, 
What as words he comprehended. 
Was but music to the others, 
Music as of birds afar off. 
Of the whippoorwill afar off, 
Of the lonely Wawonaissa 
Singing in the darksome forest. 

" Then the lodge began to tremble, 
Straight began to shake and tremble, 
And they felt it rising, rising. 
Slowly through the air ascending, 
From the darkness of the tree-tops 
Forth into the dewy starlight, 
Till it passed the topmost branches ; 
And behold ! the wooden dishes 
All were changed to shells of scarlet ! 
And behold ! the earthen kettles 
All were changed to bowls of silver ! 
And the roof-poles of the wigwam 
Were as glittering rods of silver. 
And the roof of bark upon them 
As the shining shards of beetles. 

" Then Osseo gazed around him. 
And he saw the nine fair sisters, 



All the sisters and their husbands, 
Changed to birds of various plumage. 
Some were jays and some were magpies. 
Others thrushes, others blackbirds ; 
And they hopped, and sang, and twittered. 
Perked and fluttered all their feathers, 
Strutted in their shining plumage, 
And their tails like fans unfolded. 

" Only Oweenee, the youngest. 
Was not changed, but sat in silence. 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly. 
Looking sadly at the others ; 
Till Osseo, gazing upward. 
Gave another cry of anguish. 
Such a ciy as he had uttered 
By the oak-tree in the forest. 

" Then returned her youth and beauty, 
And her soiled and tattered garments 
Were transformed to robes of ermine. 
And her staff became a feather. 
Yes, a shining silver feather ! 

" And again the wigwam trembled, 
Swayed and rushed through airy currents. 
Through transparent cloud and vapor. 
And amid celestial splendors 
On the Evening Star alighted. 
As a snow-flake falls on snow-flake, 
As a leaf drops on a river. 
As the thistle-down on water. 

" Forth with cheerful words of welcome 
Came the father of Osseo, 
He with radiant locks of silver, 
He with eyes serene and tender. 
And he said : ' My son, Osseo, 
Hang the cage of birds you bring there, 
Hang the cage with rods of silver. 
And the birds with glistening feathers. 
At the doorway of my wigwam.' 

" At the door he hung the bird-cage. 
And they entered in and gladly 
Listened to Osseo's father. 
Ruler of the Star of Evening, 
As he said : ' O my Osseo ! 
I have had compassion on you. 
Given you back your youth and beauty, 
Into birds of various plumage 
Changed your sisters and their husbands ; 
Changed them thus because they mocked 

you 
In the figure of the old man. 
In that aspect sad and wrinkled. 
Could not see your heart of passion, 
Could not see your youth immortal ; 



THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. 



329 



Only Oweenee, the faithful, 

Saw your naked heart and loved you. 
" ' In the lodge that glimmers yonder 

In the little star that twinkles 

Through the vapors, on the left hand, 

Lives the envious Evil Spirit, 

The Wabeno, the magician. 

Who transformed you to an old man. 

Take heed lest his beams fall on you. 

For the rays he darts around him 

Are the power of his enchantment, 

Are the arrows that he uses." 
" Many years, in peace and quiet. 

On the peaceful Star of Evening 

Dwelt Osseo with his father ; 

Many years, in song and flutter, 

At the doorway of the wigwam. 

Hung the cage with rods of silver, 

And fair Oweenee, the faithful. 

Bore a son unto Osseo, 

With the beauty of his mother. 

With the courage of his father. 

"And the boy grew up and prospered, 

And Osseo, to delight him, 

Made him little bows and arrows. 
Opened the great cage of silver, 
And let loose his aunts and uncles. 
All those birds with glossy feathers. 
For his little son to shoot at. 

" Round and round they wheeled and 
darted. 
Filled the Evening Star with music. 
With their songs of joy and freedom ; 
Filled the Evening Star with splendor. 
With the fluttering of their plumage ; 
Till the boy, the little hunter, 
Bent his bow and shot an arrow, 
Shot a swift and fatal arrow, 
And a bird, with shining feathers, 
At his feet fell wounded sorely. 

" But, O wondrous transformation ! 
'T was no bird he saw before him, 
'T was a beautiful young woman. 
With the arrow in her bosom ! 

" When her blood fell on the planet. 
On the sacred Star of Evening, 
Broken was the spell of magic. 
Powerless was the strange enchantment. 
And the youth, the fearless bowman. 
Suddenly felt himself descending, 
Held by unseen hands, but smking 
Downward through the empty spaces. 
Downward through the clouds and vapors, 



Till he rested on an island. 
On an island, green and grassy, 
Yonder in the Big-Sea-Water. 

" After him he saw descending 
All the birds with shining feathers, 
Fluttering, falling, wafted downward, 
Like the painted leaves of Autumn ; 
And the lodge with poles of silver, 
With its roof like wings of beetles, 
Like the shining shards of beetles, 
By the winds of heaven uplifted, 
Slowly sank upon the island. 
Bringing back the good Osseo, 
Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 

" Then the birds, again transfigured, 
Reassumed the shape of mortals. 
Took their shape, but not their stature ; 
They remained as Little People, 
Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjics, 
And on pleasant nights of Summer, 
When the Evening Star was shining. 
Hand in hand they danced together 
On the island's craggy headlands, 
On the sand-beach low and level. 

" Still their glittering lodge is seen 
there, 
On the tranquil Summer evenings. 
And upon the shore the fisher 
Sometimes hears their happy voices. 
Sees them dancing in the starlight ! " 

When the story was completed. 
When the wondrous tale was ended. 
Looking round upon his listeners, 
Solemnly lagoo added : 
" There are great men, I have known 

such. 
Whom their people understand not. 
Whom they even make a jest of. 
Scoff and jeer at in derision. 
From the story of Osseo 
Let us learn the fate of jesters ! " 

All the wedding guests delighted 
Listened to the marvellous story, 
Listened laughing and applauding, 
And they whispered to each other : 
" Does he mean himself, I wonder ? 
And are we the aunts and uncles ?" 

Then again sang Chibiabos, 
Sang a song of love and longing, 
In those accents sweet and tender, 
In those tones of pensive sadness, 
Sang a maiden's lamentation 
For her lover, her Algonquin. 



330 



l^HE SONG OF HIA WA THA. 



" When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" Ah me ! when I parted from him. 
Round my neclv he hung the wampum. 
As a pledge, the snow-white wampum, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" I will go with you, he whispered, 
Ah me ! to your native country ; 
Let me go with you, he whispered, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" Far away, away, I answered, 
Very far away, I answered, 
Ah me ! is my native country, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" When I looked back to behold him, 
Where we parted, to behold him. 
After me he still was gazing, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" By the tree he still was standing. 
By the fallen tree was standing. 
That had dropped into the water, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! 

" When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me ! think of my beloved. 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin ! " 

Such was Hiawatha's Wedding, 
Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Such the story of lagoo. 
Such the songs of Chibiabos ; 
Thus the wedding banquet ended, 
And the wedding guests departed. 
Leaving Hiawatha happy 
With the night and Minnehaha. 

XHL 

BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS. 

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, 

Of the happy days that followed. 

In the land of the Ojibways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful ! 

Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, 

Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields ! 

Buried was the bloody hatchet, 
Buried was the dreadful war-club, 
Buried were all warlike weapons. 
And the war-cry was forgotten. 
There was peace among the nations ; 
Unmolested roved the hunters. 



Built the birch-canoe for sailing, 
Caught the fish in lake and river. 
Shot the deer and trapped the beaver ;. 
Unmolested worked the women, 
Made their sugar from the maple. 
Gathered wild rice in the meadows, 
Dressed the skins of deer and beaver. 

All around the happy village 
Stood the maize-fields, green and shiu'- 

ing, 
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin,. 
Waved his soft and sunny tresses, 
Filling all the land with plenty. 
'Twas the women who in Spring-time 
Planted the broad fields and fruitful, 
Buried in the earth Mondamin ; 
'T was the women who in Autumn 
Stripped the yellow husks of harvest, 
Stripped the garments from Mondamin, 
Even as Hiawatha taught them. 

Once, when all the maize was planted^ 
Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful. 
Spake and said to Minnehaha, 
To his wife, the Laughing Water : 
" You shall bless to-night the cornfields^ 
Draw a magic circle round them. 
To protect them from destruction, 
Blast of mildew, blight of insect, 
Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! 

" In the night, when all is silence, 
In the night, when all is darkness. 
When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shuts the doors of all the wigwams. 
So that not an ear can hear you. 
So that not an eye can see you. 
Rise up from your bed in silence, 
Lay aside your garments wholly. 
Walk around the fields you planted. 
Round the borders of the cornfields, 
Covered by your tresses only. 
Robed with darkness as a garment. 

" Thus the fields shall be more fruit- 
ful. 
And the passing of your footsteps 
Draw a magic circle round them. 
So that neither blight nor mildew, 
Neither burrowing worm nor insect, 
Shall pass o'er the magic circle ; 
Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, 
Nor the spider, Subbekashe, 
Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keene,. 
Nor the mighty caterpillar. 



BLESS/ATG THE CORNFIELDS. 



331 



Way-muk-kwana, with the bear-skin, 
King of all the caterpillars ! " 

On the tree-tops near the cornfields 
Sat the hungry crows and ravens, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
With his band of black marauders. 
And they laughed at Hiawatha, 
Till the tree-tops shook with laughter, 
With their melancholy laughter 
At the words of Hiawatha. 
" Hear him ! " said they ; " hear the 

Wise Man, 
Hear the plots of Hiawatha ! " 

When the noiseless night descended 
Broad and dark o'er field and forest, 
When the mournful Wawonaissa, 
Sorrowing sang among the hemlocks, 
And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
Shut the doors of all the wigwams, 
From her bed rose Laughing Water, 
Laid aside her garments wholly, 
And with darkness clothed and guarded 
Unashamed and unafTrighted, 
Walked securely round the cornfields. 
Drew the sacred, magic circle 
Of her footprints round the cornfields. 

No one but the Midnight only 
Saw her beauty in the darkness. 
No one but the Wawonaissa 
Heard the panting of her bosom ; 
Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped her 
Closely in his sacred mantle. 
So that none might see her beauty. 
So that none might boast, " I saw her ! " 

On the morrow, as the day dawned, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Gathered all his black marauders. 
Crows and blackbirds, jays and ravens, 
Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops. 
And descended, fast and fearless. 
On the fields of Hiawatha, 
On the grave of the Mondamin. 

" We will drag Mondamin," said they 
" From the grave where he is buried," 
Spite of all the magic circles 
Laughing Water draws around it. 
Spite of all the sacred footprints 
Minnehaha stamps upon it ! " 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Ever thoughtful, careful, watchful, 
Had o'erheard the scornful laughter 
When they mocked him from the tree- 
tops. 



" Kaw ! " he said, " my friends the 

ravens ! 
Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens ! 
I will teach you all a lesson 
That shall not be soon forgotten ! " 

He had risen before the daybreak, 
He had spread o'er all the cornfields 
Snares to catch the black marauders. 
And was lying now in ambush 
In the neighboring grove of pine-trees, 
Waiting for the crows and blackbirds, 
Waiting for the jays and ravens. 

Soon they came with caw and clamor. 
Rush of wings and cry of voices. 
To their work of devastation. 
Settling down upon the cornfields, 
Delving deep with beak and talon. 
For the body of Mondamin. 
And with all their craft and cunning. 
All their skill in wiles of warfare. 
They perceived no danger near them. 
Till their claws became entangled, 
Till they found themselves imprisoned 
In the snares of Hiawatha. 

From his place of ambush came he, 
Striding terrible among them. 
And so awful was his aspect 
That the bravest quailed with tc.ror. 
Without mercy he destroyed thetu 
Right and left, by tens and twenties. 
And their wretched, lifeless bodies 
Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows 
Round the consecrated cornfields. 
As a signal of his vengeance. 
As a warning to marauders. 

Only Kahgahgee, the leader, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
He alone was spared among them 
As a hostage for his people. 
With his prisoner-string he bound him, 
Led him captive to his wigwam. 
Tied him fast with cords of elm-bark 
To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. 

" Kahgahgee, my raven ! " said he, 
" You the leader of the robbers. 
You the plotter of this mischief. 
The contriver of this outrage, 
I will keep you, I will hold you, 
As a hostage for your people. 
As a pledge of good behavior ! " 

And he left him, grim and sulky. 
Sitting in the morning sunshine 
On the summit of the wigwam, 



332 



THE SONG OF HI A IVA THA. 



Croaking fiercely his displeasure, 
Flapping his great sable pinions, 
Vainly struggling for his freedom. 
Vainly calling on his people ! 

Summer passed, and Shawondasse 
Breathed his sighs o'er all the landscape, 
From the South-land sent his ardors, 
Wafted kisses warm and tender ; 
And the maize-field grew and ripened. 
Till it stood in all the splendor 



Strip him of his plumes and tassels, 
Of his garments green and yellow ! " 

And the merry Laughing Water 
Went rejoicing from the wigwam. 
With Nokomis, old and wrinkled. 
And they called the women round them, 
Called the young men and the maidens, 
To the harvest of the cornfields. 
To the husking of the maize-ear. 

On the border of the forest. 




Of its garments green and yellow, 
Of its tassels and its plumage. 
And the maize-ears full and shining 
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of ver- 
dure. 
Then Nokomis, the old woman, 
Spake, and said to Minnehaha : 
*' 'Tis the Moon when leaves are falling ; 
All the wild rice has been gathered, 
And the maize is ripe and ready ; 
Let us gather in the harvest, 
Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 



Underneath the fragrant pine-trees. 
Sat the old men and the warriors 
Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 
In uninterrupted silence 
Looked they at the gamesome labor 
Of the young men and the women ; 
Listened to their noisy talking, 
To their laughter and their singing. 
Heard them chattering like the magpies, 
Heard them laughing like the blue-jays, 
Heard them singing like the robins. 
And whene'er some luckv maiden 



PICTURE- WRITING. 



333 



Found a red ear in the husking, 
Found a maize-ear red as blood is, 
" Nushka ! " cried they all together, 
" Nushka ! you shall have a sweetheart. 
You shall have a handsome husband ! " 
" Ugh ! " the old men all responded 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees. 

And whene'er a youth or maiden 
Found a crooked ear in husking, 
Found a maize-ear in the husking 
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen. 
Then they laughed and sang together, 
Crept and limped about the cornfields, 
Mimicked in their gait and gestures 
Some old man, bent almost double. 
Singing singly or together : 
" Wagemin, the thief of cornfields ! 
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear ! " 

Till the cornfields rang with laughter. 
Till from Hiawatha's wigwam 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Screamed and quivered in his anger. 
And from all the neighboring tree-tops 
Cawed and croaked the black marauders. 
" Ugh ! " the old men all responded, 
From their seats beneath the pine-trees ! 

XIV. 

PICTURE-WRITING. 

In those days said Hiawatha, 

" Lo ! how all things fade and perish ! 

From the memory of the old men 

Pass away the great traditions. 

The achievements of the warriors. 

The adventures of the hunters, 

All the wisdom of the Medas, 

All the craft of the Wabenos, 

All the marvellous dreams and visions 

Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets ! 

" Great men die and are forgotten. 
Wise men speak : their words of wisdom 
Perish in the ears that hear them. 
Do not reach the generations 
That, as yet unborn, are waiting 
In the great, mysterious darkness 
Of the speechless days that shall be ! 

" On the grave-posts of our fathers 
Are no signs, no figures painted ; 
Who are in those graves we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 
Of what kith they are and kindred. 



From what old, ancestral Totem, 
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, 
They descended, this we know not, 
O-nly know they are our fathers. 

" Face to face we speak together. 
But we cannot speak when absent. 
Cannot send our voices from us 
To the friends that dwell afar off; 
Cannot send a secret message. 
But the bearer learns our secret, 
May pervert it, may betray it. 
May reveal it unto others." 

Thus said Hiawatha, walking 
In the solitary forest. 
Pondering, musing in the forest. 
On the welfare of his people. 

From his pouch he took his colors, 
Took his paints of different colors. 
On the smooth bark of a birch-tree 
Painted many shapes and figures. 
Wonderful and mystic figures, 
And each figure had a meaning, 
Each some word or thought suggested. 

Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
He, the Master of Life, was painted 
As an egg, with points projecting 
To the four winds of the heavens. 
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Mitche Manito the Mighty, 
He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, 
As a serpent was depicted, 
As Kenabeek, the great serpent. 
Very crafty, very cunning. 
Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 

Life and Death he drew as circles, 
Life was white, but Death was darkened ; 
Sun and moon and stars he painted, 
Man and beast, and fish and reptile, 
Forests, mountains, lakes and rivers. 

For the earth he drew a straight line, 
For the sky a bow above it ; 
White the space between for day-time, 
Filled with little stars for night-time ; 
On the left a point for sunrise, 
On the right a point for sunset. 
On the top a point for noontide, 
And for rain and cloudy weather 
Waving lines descending from it. 

Footprints pointing towards a wigwam 
Were a sign of invitation. 
Were a sign of guests assembling ; 



334 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Bloody hands with palms uplifted 
Were a symbol of destruction, 
Were a hostile sign and symbol. 
All these things did Hiawatha 
Show unto his wondering people, 
And interpreted their meaning. 
And he said : " Behold, your grave-posts 
Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol. 



Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, 
Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, 
Each inverted as a token 
That the owner was departed. 
That the chief who bore the symbol 
Lay beneath in dust and ashes. 

And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The Wabenos, the Magicians, 




Go and paint them all with figures ; 
Each one with its household symbol, 
With its own ancestral Totem 
So that those who follow after 
May distinguish them and know them." 
And they painted on the grave-posts 
On the graves yet unforgotten, 
Each his own ancestral Totem, 
Each the symbol of his household, 



And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Painted upon bark and deer-skin 
Figures for the songs they chanted. 
For each song a separate symbol. 
Figures mystical and awful. 
Figures strange and brightly colored ; 
And each figure had its meaning, 
Each some magic song suggested. 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 



HIAWATHA'S LAMENTATION. 335 


Flashing light througk all the heaven ; 


Such the magic power of passion, 


The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, 


I could straightway draw you to me ! " 


With his bloody crest erected, 


Then the figure of the maiden 


Creeping, looking into heaven ; 


Sleeping, and the lover near her. 


In the sky the sun, that listens. 


Whispering to her in her slumbers. 


And the moon eclipsed and dying ; 


Saying, " Though you were far from me 


Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, 


In the land of Sleep and Silence, 


And the cormorant, bird of magic ; 


Still the voice of love would reach you ! " 


Headless men, that walk the heavens. 


And the last of all the figures 


Bodies lying pierced with arrows. 


Was a heart within a circle, 


Bloody hands of death uplifted, 


Drawn within a magic circle ; 


Flags on graves, and great war-captains 


And the image had this meaning : 


Grasping both the earth and heaven ! 


" Naked lies your heart before me, 


Such as these the shapes they painted 


To your naked heart I whisper ! " 


On the birch-bark and the deer-skin ; 


Thus it was that Hiawatha, 


Songs of war and songs of hunting, 


In his wisdom, taught the people 


Songs of medicine and of magic. 


All the mysteries of painting. 


All were written in these figures. 


All the art of Picture-Writing, 


For each figure had its meaning, 


On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, 


Each its separate song recorded. 


On the white skin of the reindeer, 


Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, 


On the grave-posts of the village. 


The most subtle of all medicines. 




The most potent spell of magic, 


XV. 


Dangerous more than war or hunting ! 




Thus the Love- Song was recorded. 


HIAWATHA'S L.\MENTATION. 


Symbol and interpretation. 




First a human figure standing. 


In those days the Evil Spirits, 


Painted in the brightest scarlet ; 


All the Manitos of mischief, 


'T is the lover, the musician. 


Fearing Hiawatha's wisdom, 


And the meaning is, " My painting 


And his love for Chibiabos, 


Makes me powerful over others." 


Jealous of their faithful friendship. 


Then the figure seated, singing, 


And their noble words and actions, 


Playing on a drum of magic, 


Made at length a league against them, 


And the interpretation, " Listen ! 


To molest them and destroy them. 


'T is my voice you hear, my singing ! " 


Hiawatha, wise and waiy, 


Then the same red figure seated 


Often said to Chibiabos, 


Li the shelter of a wigwam, 


" my brother ! do not leave me, 


And the meaning of the symbol. 


Lest the Evil Spirits harm you ! " 


" I will come and sit beside you 


Chibiabos, young and heedless, 


In the mystery of my passion ! " 


Laughing shook his coal-black tresses, 


Then two figures, man and woman. 


Answered ever sweet and childlike. 


Standing hand in hand together 


" Do not fear for me, brother ! 


With their hands so clasped together 


Harm and evil come not near me ! " 


That they seem in one united, 


Once when Peboan, the Winter, 


And the words thus represented 


Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Water, 


Are " I see your heart within you. 


When the snow-flakes, whirling down- 


And your cheeks are red with blushes ! " 


ward. 


Next the maiden on an island, 


Hissed among the withered oak-leaves, 


In the centre of an island ; 


Changed the pine-trees into wig\vams. 


And the song this shape suggested 


Covered all the earth with silence, — 


Was, " Though you were at a distance, 


Armed with arrows, shod with snow- 


Were upon some far-off island, 


shoes, 


Such the spell I cast upon you, 


Heeding not his brother's warning, 



336 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Fearing not the Evil Spirits, 
Forth to hunt the deer with antlers 
All alone went Chibiabos. 

Right across the Big-Sea- Water 
Sprang with speed the deer before 

him. 
With the wind and snow he followed, 



Drowned him in the deep abysses 
Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. 

From the headlands Hiawatha 
Sent forth such a wail of anguish, 
Such a fearful lamentation. 
That the bison paused to listen, 
And the wolves howled from the prairies. 





O'er the treacherous ice he followed, 
Wild with all the fierce commotion 
And the rapture of the hunting. 
But beneath, the Evil Spirits 
Lay in ambush, waiting for him, 
Broke the treacherous ice beneath him, 
Dragged him downward to the bottom, 
Buried in the sand his body. 
Unktahee, the god of water, 
He the god of the Dacotahs, 



And the thunder in the distance 
Starting answered " Baim-wawa ! " 

Then his face with black he painted, 
With his robe his head he covered. 
In his wigwam sat lamenting. 
Seven long weeks he sat lamenting. 
Uttering still this moan of sorrow : — 

" He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! 
He has gone from us forever, 



HfA WA THA'S LAMENTA TION. 



337 



He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music, 
To the Master of all singing ! 
O my brother, Chibiabos ! " 

And the melancholy fir-trees 
Waved their dark green fans above him. 
Waved their purple cones above him, 
Sighing with him to console him, 
Mingling with his lamentation 
Their complaining, their lamenting. 

Came the Spring, and all the forest 
Looked in vain for Chibiabos ; 
Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, 
Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 

From the tree-tops sang the bluebird, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
" Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! " 

From the wigwam sang the robin, 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
" Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweetest singer ! " 

And at night through all the forest 
Went the whippoorwill complaining. 
Wailing went the Wawonaissa, 
" Chibiabos ! Chibiabos ! 
He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! " 

Then the medicine-men, the Medas, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the Jossakeeds, the prophets. 
Came to visit Hiawatha ; 
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, 
To appease him, to console him. 
Walked in silent, grave procession. 
Bearing each a pouch of healing, 
Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, 
Filled with magic roots and simples, 
Filled with very potent medicines. 

When he heard their steps approach- 
ing, 
Hiawatha ceased lamenting. 
Called no more on Chibiabos ; 
Naught he questioned, naught he an- 
swered. 
But his mournful head uncovered. 
From his face the mourning colors 
Washed he slowly and in silence, 
Slowly and in silence followed 
Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. 

There a magic drink they gave him. 
Made of Nahma-wusk, the spearmint. 
And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow. 



Roots of power, and herbs of healing ; 
Beat their drums, and shook their rat- 
tles ; 
Chanted singly and in chorus. 
Mystic songs like these, they chanted. 

" I myself, myself! behold me ! 
'T is the great Gray Eagle talking ; 
Come, ye white crows, come and hear 

him ! 
The loud-speaking thunder helps me ; 
All the unseen spirits help me ; 
I can hear their voices calling. 
All around the sky I hear them ! 
I can blow you strong, Wiy brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

" Friends of mine are all the serpents ! 
Hear me shake my skin of hen-hawk ! 
Mahng, the white loon, I can kill him ; 
I can shoot your heart and kill it ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

" I myself, myself ! the prophet ! 
When I speak the wigwam trembles. 
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with terror. 
Hands unseen begin to shake it ! 
When I walk, the sky I tread on 
Bends and makes a noise beneath me ! 
I can blow you strong, my brother ! 
Rise and speak, O Hiawatha ! " 

" Hi-au-ha ! " replied the chorus, 
" Way-ha-way ! " the mystic chorus. 

Then they shook their medicine- 
pouches 
O'er the head of Hiawatha, 
Danced their medicine-dance around 

him ; 
And upstarting wild and haggard. 
Like a man from dreams awakened, 
He was healed of all his madness. 
As the clouds are swept from heaven. 
Straightway from his brain departed 
All his moody melancholy ; 
As the ice is swept from rivers, 
Straightway from his heart departed 
All his sorrow and affliction. 

Then they summoned Chibiabos 
From his grave beneath the waters, 
From the sands of Gitche Gumee 
.Summoned Hiawatha's brother. 



And so mighty was the magic 
Of that cry and invocation, 
That he heard it as he lay there 
Underneath the Big-Sea-Water ; 
From the sand he rose and listened, 
Heard the music and the singing, 
Came, obedient to the summons, 
To the doorway of the wigwam, 
But to enter they forbade him. 

Through a chinlc a coal they gave him, 
Through the door a burning fire-brand ; 
Ruler in the Land of Spirits, 
Ruler o'er the dead, they made him. 
Telling him a fire to kindle 
For all those that died thereafter. 
Camp-fires for their night encampments 
On their solitary journey 
To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter. 

From the village of his childhood, 
From the homes of those who knew him, 
Passing silent through the forest. 
Like a smoke-wreath wafted sideways, 
Slowly vanished Chibiabos ! 
Where he passed, the branches moved 

not, 
Where he trod, the grasses bent not, 
And the fallen leaves of last year 
Made no sound beneath his footsteps. 

Four whole days he journeyed onward 
Down the pathway of the dead men ; 
On the dead-man's strawberry feasted, 
Crossed the melancholy river. 
On the swinging log he crossed it, 
Came unto the Lake of Silver, 
In the Stone Canoe was carried 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the land of ghosts and shadows. 

On that journey, moving slowly, 
Many weary spirits saw he, 
Panting under heavy burdens, 
Laden with war-clubs, bows and arrows. 
Robes of fur, and pots and kettles. 
And with food that friends had given 
For that solitary journey. 

" Ay ! why do the living," said they, 
" Lay such heavy burdens on us ! 
Better were it to go naked, 
Better vrere it to go fasting, 
Than to bear such heavy burdens 
On our long and weary journey ! " 

Forth then issued Hiawatha, 
Wandered eastward, wandered westward, 



Teaching men the use of simples 

And the antidotes for poisons, 

And the cure of all diseases. 

Thus was first made known to mortals 

All the mystery of Medamin, 

All the sacred art of healing. 

XVI. 

PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
He, the handsome Yenadizze, 
Whom the people called the Storm- 
Fool, 
Vexed the village with disturbance : 
You shall hear of all his mischief. 
And his flight from Hiawatha, 
And his wondrous transmigrations. 
And the end of his adventures. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
By the shining Big- Sea- Water 
Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
It was he who in his frenzy 
Whirled these drifting sands together, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 
When, among the guests assembled. 
He so merrily and madly 
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, 
Danced the Beggar's Dance to please 
them. 

Now, in search of new adventures. 
From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Came with speed into the village, 
Found the young men all assembled 
In the lodge of old lagoo. 
Listening to his monstrous stories, 
To his wonderful adventures. 

He was telling them the story 
Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, 
How he made a hole in heaven, 
How he climbed up into heaven, 
And let out the summer-weather, 
The perpetual, pleasant Summer ; 
How the Otter first' essayed it ; 
How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badgei 
Tried in turn the great achievement. 
From the summit of the mountain 
Smote their fists against the heavens. 
Smote against the sky their foreheads, 
Cracked the sky, but could not break it ; 
How the Wolverine, uprising. 



PA U-PUK-KEE WIS. 339 


Made him ready for the encounter, 


White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 


Bent his knees down, like a squirrel. 


Red are all the other pieces ; 


Drew his arms back, like a cricket. 


Five tens and an eight are counted." 


" Once he leaped," said old lagoo. 


Thus he taught the game of hazard, 


" Once he leaped, and lo ! above him 


Thus displayed it and explained it. 


Bent the sky, as ice in rivers 


Running through its various chances. 


When the waters rise beneath it ; 


Various changes, various meanings : 


Twice he leaped, and lo ! above him 


Twenty curious eyes stared at him, 


Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers 


Full of eagerness stared at him. 


When the freshet is at highest ! 


" Many games," said old lagoo. 


Thrice he leaped, and lo ! above him 


" Many games of skill and hazard 


Broke the shattered sky asunder, 


Have I seen in different nations. 


And he disappeared within it. 


Have I played in different countries. 


And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, 


He who plays with old lagoo 


With a bound went in behind him ! " 


Must have very nimble fingers ; 


" Hark you ! " shouted Pau-Puk- 


Though you think yourself so skilful, 


Keewis 


I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


As he entered at the doorway ; 


I can even give you lessons 


" I am tired of all this talking. 


In your game of Bowl and Counters ! " 


Tired of old lagoo's stories. 


So they sat and played together, 


Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom. 


All the old men and the young men, 


Here is something to amuse you, 


Played for dresses, weapons, wampum. 


Better than this endless talking." 


Played till midnight, played till morning 


Then from out his pouch of wolf-skin 


Played until the Yenadizze, 


Forth he drew, with solemn manner. 


Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


All the game of Bowl and Counters, 


Of their treasures had despoiled them, 


Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 


Of the best of all their dresses. 


White on one side were they painted. 


Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine. 


And vermilion on the other ; 


Belts of wampum, crests of feathers. 


Two Kenabeeks or great serpents. 


Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. 


Two Ininewug or wedge-men. 


Twenty eyes glared wildly at him. 


One great war-club, Pugamaugun, 


Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. 


And one slender fish, the Keego, 


Said the Lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis : 


Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, 


" In my wigwam I am lonely. 


And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. 


In my wanderings and adventures 


All were made of bone and painted. 


I have need of a companion. 


All except the Ozawabeeks ; 


Fain would have a Meshinauwa, 


These were brass, on one side burnished. 


An attendant and pipe-bearer. 


And were black upon the other. 


I will venture all these winnings. 


In a wooden bowl he placed them. 


All these garments heaped about me. 


Shook and jostled them together, 


All this wampum, all these feathers. 


Threw them on the ground before him. 


On a single throw will venture 


Thus exclaiming and explaining : 


All against the young man yonder ! " 


" Red side up are all the pieces. 


'T was a youth of sixteen summers. 


And one great Kenabeek standing 


'T was a nephew of lagoo ; 


On the bright side of a brass piece. 


Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. 


On a burnished Ozawabeek : 


As the fire burns in a pipe-head 


Thirteen tens and eight are counted." 


Dusky red beneath the ashes. 


Then again he shook the pieces. 


So beneath his shaggy eyebrows 


Shook and jostled them together. 


Glowed the eyes of old lagoo. 


Threw them on the ground before him, 


" Ugh ! " he answered very fiercely ; 


Still exclaiming and explaining : 


" Ugh ! " they answered all and each 


" White are both the great Kenabeeks, 


one. 



340 



THE SONG OF HTAWATHA. 



Seized the wooden bowl the old man, 
Closely in his bony fingers 
Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, 
Shook it fiercely and with fury, 
Made the pieces ring together 
As he threw them down before him. 

Red were both the great Kenabeeks, 
Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 



Red and white the other pieces, 
And upright among the others 
One Ininewug was standing, 
Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood alone among the players, 
Saying, " Five tens ! mine the game is 
Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, 
Ij'ke the eyes of wolves glared at him, 




Red the Seshebwug, the ducklings. 
Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, 
White alone the fish, the Keego ; 
Only five the pieces counted ! 

Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Shook the bowl and threw the pieces ; 
Lightly in the air he tossed them, 
And they fell about him scattered ; 
Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, 



As he turned and left the wigwam, 

Followed by his Meshinauwa, 

By the nephew of lagoo. 

By the tall and graceful stripling. 

Bearing in his arms the winnings. 

Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine. 

Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. 

" Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Pointing with his fan of feathers. 



THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEIVIS. 34 1 


" To my wigwam far to eastward, 


Whistling, singing through the forest, 


On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo ! " 


Whistling gayly to the squirrels. 


Hot and red with smoke and gambling 


Who from hollow boughs above him 


Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Kcewis 


Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, 


As he came forth to the freshness 


Singing gayly to the wood-birds. 


Of the pleasant Summer morning. 


Who from out the leafy darkness 


All the birds were singing gayly, 


Answered with a song as merry. 


All the ^treamlets flowing swiftly, 


Then he climbed the rocky headlands. 


And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis 


Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, 


Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, 


Perched himself upon their summit, 


Beat with triumph like the streamlets, 


Waiting full of mirth and mischief 


As he wandered through the village, 


The return of Hiawatha. 


In the early gray of morning. 


Stretched upon his back he lay there ; 


With his fan of turkey-feathers, 


Far below him plashed the waters. 


With his plumes and tufts of swan's 


Plashed and washed the dreamy waters ; 


down. 


Far above him swam the heavens. 


Till he reached the farthest wigwam. 


Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens ; 


Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. 


Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled, 


Silent was it and deserted ; 


Hiawatha's mountain chickens. 


No one met him at the doorway. 


Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him. 


No one came to bid him welcome ; 


Almost brushed him with their pinions. 


But the birds were singing round it, 


And he killed them as he lay there. 


In and out and round the doorway, 


Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, 


Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, 


Threw their bodies down the headland, 


And aloft upon the ridge-pole 


Threw them on the beach below him, 


Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 


Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, 


Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, 


Perched upon a crag above them. 


Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. 


Shouted : " It is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 


" All are gone ! the lodge is empty ! " 


He is slaying us by hundreds ! 


Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Send a message to our brother, 


In his heart resolving mischief ; — 


Tidings send to Hiawatha ! " 


" Gone is wary Hiawatha, 




Gone the silly Laughing Water, 


XVI 1. 


Gone Nokomis, the old woman, 




And the lodge is left unguarded ! " 


THE HUNTING OF PAU-1'UK-KEEWIS. 


By the neck he seized the raven. 




Whirled it round him like a rattle. 


Full of wrath was Hiawatha 


Like a medicine-pouch he shook it. 


When he came into the village. 


Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, 


Found the people in confusion. 


From the ridge-pole of the wigwam 


Heard of all the misdemeanors. 


Left its lifeless body hanging. 


All the malice and the mischief. 


As an insult to its master. 


Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 


As a taunt to Hiawatha. 


Hard his breath came through his 


With a stealthy step he entered, 


nostrils. 


Round the lodge in wild disorder 


Through his teeth he buzzed and mut- 


Threw the household things about him, 


tered 


Piled together in confusion 


Words of anger and resentment. 


Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, 


Hot and humming, like a hornet. 


Robes of buffalo and beaver, 


" I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, 


Slay this mischief-maker ! " said he. 


As an insult to Nokomis, 


" Not so long and wide the world is, 


As a taunt to Minnehaha. 


Not so rude and rough the way is, 


Tiicn departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


That my wrath shall not attain him. 



342 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


That my vengeance shall not reach 


Let me rest there in your lodges ; 


him ! " 


Change me, too, into a beaver ! " 


Then in swift pursuit departed 


Cautiously replied the beaver. 


Hiawatha and the hunters 


With reserve he thus made answer : 


On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


" Let me first consult the others, 


Through the forest, where he passed it, 


Let me ask the other beavers." 


To the headlands where he rested ; 


Down he sank into the water. 


But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks. 


Only in the trampled grasses. 


Down among the leaves and branches, 


In the whortleberry-bushes. 


Brown and matted at the bottom. 


Found the couch where he had rested, 


On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Found the impress of his body. 


O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet. 


From the lowlands far beneath them, 


Spouted through the chinks below him, 


From the Muskoday, the meadow. 


Dashed upon the stones beneath him. 


Pau-Puk-Keewis, turning backward, 


Spread serene and calm before him. 


Made a gesture of defiance. 


And the sunshine and the shadows 


Made a gesture of derision ; 


Fell in flecks and gleams upon him. 


And aloud cried Hiawatha, 


Fell in little shining patches. 


From the summit of the mountain : 


Through the waving, rustling branches. 


" Not so long and wide the world is, 


From the bottom rose the beavers, 


Not so rude and rough the way is, 


Silently above the surface 


But my wrath shall overtake you. 


Rose one head and then another. 


And my vengeance shall attain you ! " 


Till the pond seemed full of beavers, 


Over rock and over river. 


Full of black and shining faces. 


Thorough bush, and brake, and forest, 


To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 


Ran the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 


Spake entreating, said in this wise : 


Like an antelope he bounded, 


"Very pleasant is your dwelling. 


Till he came unto a streamlet 


O my friends ! and safe from danger ; 


In the middle of the forest, 


Can you not with all your cunning, 


To a streamlet still and tranquil. 


All your wisdom and contrivance. 


That had overflowed its margin. 


Change me, too, into a beaver .-' " 


To a dam made by the beavers, 


"Yes ! " replied Ahmeek, the beaver, 


To a pond of quiet water. 


He the King of all the beavers. 


Where knee-deep the trees were stand- 


" Let yourself slide down among us, 


ing. 


Down into the tranquil water." 


Where the water-lilies floated. 


Down into the pond among them 


Where the rushes waved and whispered. 


Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 


On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Black became his shirt of deer-skin, 


On the dam of trunks and branches. 


Black his moccasins and leggings, 


Through whose chinks the water spouted. 


In a broad black tail behind him 


O'er whose summit flowed the streamlet. 


Spread his fox-tails and his fringes ; 


From the bottom rose a beaver. 


He was changed into a beaver. 


Looked with two great eyes of wonder, 


" Make me large," said Pau-Puk- 


Eyes that seemed to ask a question, 


Keewis, 


At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Keewis. 


" Make me large and make me larger, 


On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Larger than the other beavers." 


O'er his ankles flowed the streamlet. 


" Yes," the beaver chief responded, . 


Flowed the bright and silvery water. 


" When our lodge below you enter, 


And he spake unto the beaver. 


In our wigwam we will make you 


With a smile he spake in this wise : 


Ten times larger than the others." 


" O my friend Ahmeek, the beaver, 


Thus into the clear, brown water 


Cool and pleasant is the water ; 


Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 


Let me dive into the water. 


Found the bottom covered over 



THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 



343 



With the trunks of trees and branches, 
Hoards of food against the winter, 
Piles and heaps against the famine. 
Found the lodge with arching doorway, 
Leading into spacious chambers. 

Here they made him large and larger. 
Made him largest of the beavers. 
Ten times larger than the others. 



Then they heard a cry above them, 
Heard a shouting and a tramping. 
Heard a crashing and a rushing, 
And the water round and o'er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies. 
And they knew their dam was broken. 

On the lodge's roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 




You shall be our ruler," said they ; 
"Chief and king of all the beavers." 
But not long had Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sat in state among the beavers. 
When there came a voice of warning 
From the watchman at his station 
In the water-flags and lilies. 
Saying, " Here is Hiawatha ! 
Hiawatha with his hunters ! " 



Streamed the sunshine through the 

crevice. 
Sprang the beavers through the doorway, 
Hid themselves in deeper water. 
In the channel of the streamlet ; 
But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Could not pass beneath the doorway ; 
He was puffed with pride and feeding, 
He was swollen like a bladder. 



344 THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 


Through the roof looked Hiawatha, 


Make me large, and make me larger, 


Cried aloud, " Pau-Puk-Keewis ! 


Ten times larger than the others." 


Vain are all your craft and cunning, 


Straightway to a brant they changed 


Vain your manifold disguises ! 


him. 


Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Keewis ! " 


With two huge and dusky pinions, 


With their clubs they beat and bruised 


With a bosom smooth and rounded, 


him, 


With a bill like two great paddles. 


Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Made him larger than the others, 


Pounded him as maize is pounded, 


Ten times larger than the largest. 


Till his skull was crushed to pieces. 


Just as, shouting from the forest. 


Six tall hunters, lithe and limber. 


On the shore stood Hiawatha. 


Bore him home on poles and branches. 


Up they rose with cry and clamor. 


Bore the body of the beaver ; 


With a whir and beat of pinions, 


But the ghost, the Jeebi in him. 


Rose up from the reedy islands. 


Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


From the water-flags and lilies. 


Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. 


And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis : 


And it fluttered, strove, and struggled, 


" In your flying, look not downward. 


Waving hither, waving thither. 


Take good heed, and look not downward. 


As the curtains of a wigwam 


Lest some strange mischance should 


Struggle with their thongs of deer- 


happen. 


skin, 


Lest some great mishap befall you ! " 


When the wintry wind is blowing ; 


Fast and far they fled to northward. 


Till it drew itself together. 


Fast and far through mist and sunshine, 


Till it rose up from the body, 


Fed among the moors and fen-lands. 


Till it took the form and features 


Slept among the reeds and rushes. 


Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 


On the morrow as they journeyed, 


Vanishing into the forest. 


Buoyed and lifted by the South-wind, 


But the wary Hiawatha 


Wafted onward by the South-wind, 


Saw the figure ere it vanished. 


Blowing fresh and strong behind them, 


Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 


Rose a sound of human voices. 


Glide into the soft blue shadow 


Rose a clamor from beneath them, 


Of the pine-trees of the forest ; 


From the lodges of a village. 


Toward the squares of white beyond it, 


From the people miles beneath them. 


Toward an opening in the forest. 


For the people of the village 


Like a wind it rushed and panted. 


Saw the flock of brant with wonder. 


Bending all the boughs before it. 


Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 


And behind it, as the rain comes. 


Flapping far up in the ether. 


Came the steps of Hiawatha. 


Broader than two doorway curtains. 


To a lake with many islands 


Pau-Puk-Keewis heard the shouting. 


Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 


Where among the water-lilies 


Knew the outcry of lagoo, 


Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing ; 


And, forgetful of the warning. 


Through the tufts of rushes floating, 


Drew his neck in, and looked downward. 


Steering through the reedy islands. 


And the wind that blew behind him 


Now their broad black beaks they lifted. 


Caught his mighty fan of feathers. 


Now they plunged beneath the water. 


Sent him wheeling, whirling downward! 


Now they darkened in the shadow. 


All in vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 


Now they brightened in the sunshine. 


Struggle to regain his balance ! 


" Pishnekuh ! " cried Pau-Puk-Kee- 


Whirling round and round and down- 


wis, 


ward, 


" Pishnekuh ! my brothers ! " said he. 


He beheld in turn the village 


"Change me to a brant with plumage. 


And in turn the flock above him 


With a shining neck and feathers, 


Saw the village coming nearer, 



THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK-KEEWIS. 



345 



And the flock receding farther, 
Heard the voices growing louder, 
Heard the shouting and the laught' > ; 
Saw no more the flock above him, 
Only saw the earth beneath him ; 
Dead out of the empty heaven, 
Dead among the shouting people, 
With a heavy sound and sullen. 
Fell the brant with broken pinions. 

But his soul, his ghost, his shadow, 
Still survived as Pau-puk-Kcewis, 
Took again the form and features 
Of the handsome Yenadizze, 
And again went rushing onward, 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 
Crying : " Not so wide the world is, 
Not so long and rough the way is. 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
But my vengeance shall attain you ! " 

And so near he came, so near him. 
That his hand was stretched to seize him. 
His right hand to seize and hold him. 
When the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Whirled and spun about in circles, 
Fanned the air into a whirlwind. 
Danced the dust and leaves about him. 
And amid the whirling eddies 
Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, 
Changed himself into a serpent, 
Gliding out through root and rubbish. 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, 
Rent it into shreds and splinters, 
Left it lying there in fragments. 
But in vain ; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once again in human figure. 
Full in sight ran on before him. 
Sped away in gust and whirlwind. 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, 
Came unto the rocky headlands. 
To the Pictured Rocks of sandstone, 
Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Mountain, 
He the Manito of Mountains, 
Opened wide his rocky doorways. 
Opened wide his deep abysses. 
Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter 
Tn his caverns dark and dreary. 
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 

There without stood Hiawatha, 
Found the doorways closed against him. 



With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Smote great caverns in the sandstone, 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 
" Open ! I am Hiawatha ! " 
But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sandstone, 
From the gloomy rock abysses. 

Then he raised his hands to heaven, 
Called imploring on the tempest. 
Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee ; 
And they came with night and darkness, 
Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water 
From the distant Thunder Mountains ; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 
Saw the red eyes of the lightning. 
Was afraid, and crouched and trembled. 

Then Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Smote the doorways of the caverns, 
With his war-club smote the doorways. 
Smote the jutting crags of sandstone. 
And the thunder, Annemeekee, 
Shouted down into the caverns. 
Saying, " Where is Pau-Puk-Keewis ! " 
And the crags fell, and beneath them 
Dead among the rocky ruins 
Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 
Slain in his own human figure. 

Ended were his wild adventures, 
Ended were his tricks and gambols, 
Ended all his craft and cunning. 
Ended all his mischief-making. 
All his gambling and his dancing. 
All his wooing of the maidens. 

Then the noble Hiawatha 
Took his soul, his ghost, his shadow. 
Spake and said : " O Pau-Puk-Keew^is, 
Nevermore in human figure 
Shall you search for new adventures ; 
Nevermore with jest and laughter 
Dance the dust and leaves in whirlwinds 
But above there in the heavens 
You shall soar and sail in circles ; 
I will change you to an eagle, 
To Keneu, the great war-eagle. 
Chief of all the fowls with feathers, 
Chief of Hiawatha's chickens." 

And the name of Pau-Puk-Kecu is 
Lingers still among the people. 
Lingers still among the singers. 



346 



THE SONG OF HI A WA THA. 



And among the story-tellers ; 

And in Winter, when the snow-flakes 

Whirl in eddies round the lodges, 

When the wind in gusty tumult 

O'er the smoke-flue pipes and whistles, 

" There," they cry, " comes Pau-Puk- 

Keewis ; 
He is dancing through the village, 
He is gathering in his harvest ! " 

xvin. 

THE DEATH OF KWASIND. 

Far and wide among the nations 
Spread the name and fame of Kwasind ; 
No man dared to strive with Kwasind, 
No man could compete with Kwasind, 
But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, 
They the envious Little People, 
They the fairies and the pygmies. 
Plotted and conspired against him. 

" If this hateful Kwasind," said they, 
" If this great, outrageous fellow 
Goes on thus a little longer. 
Tearing everything he touches, 
Rending everything to pieces, 
Filling all the world with wonder. 
What becomes of the Puk-Wudjies ? 
Who will care for the Puk-Wudjies ? 
He will tread us down like mushrooms, 
Drive us all into the water. 
Give our bodies to be eaten 
By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 
By the Spirits of the water ! " 

So the angry Little People 
All conspired against the Strong Man, 
All conspired to murder Kwasind, 
Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, 
The audacious, overbearing, 
Heartless, haughty, dangerous Kwasind ! 

Now this wondrous strength of Kwa- 
sind 
In his crown alone was seated ; 
In his crown too was his weakness ; 
There alone could he be wounded, 
Nowhere else could weapon pierce him. 
Nowhere else could weapon harm him. 

Even there the only weapon 
That could wound him, that could slay 

him. 
Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, 
Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. 



This was Kwasind's fatal secret, 
Known to no man among mortals ; 
But the cunning Little People, 
The Puk-Wudjies, knew the secret, 
Knew the only way to kill him. 

So they gathered cones together. 
Gathered seed-cones of the pine-tree. 
Gathered blue cones of the fir-tree, 
In the woods by Taquamenaw, 
Brought them to the river's margin. 
Heaped them in great piles together. 
Where the red rocks from the mar- 
gin 
Jutting overhang the river. 
There they lay in wait for Kwasind, 
The malicious Little People. 

'T was an afternoon in Summer ; 
Very hot and still the air was, 
Very smooth the gliding river. 
Motionless the sleeping shadows : 
Insects glistened in the sunshine, 
Insects skated on the water. 
Filled the drowsy air with buzzing. 
With a far-resounding war-cry. 

Down the river came the Strong Man, 
In his birch-canoe came Kwasind, 
Floating slowly down the current 
Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, 
Very languid with the weather. 
Very sleepy with the silence. 

From the overhanging branches, 
From the tassels of the birch-trees. 
Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended ; 
By his airy hosts surrounded. 
His invisible attendants. 
Came the S]Mrit of Sleep, Nepahwin ; 
Like the burnished Dush-kwo-ne-she, 
Like a dragon-fly, he hovered 
O'er the drowsy head of Kwasind. 

To his ear there came a murmur 
As of waves upon a sea-shorf. 
As of far-off tumbling waters. 
As of winds among the pine-irees ; 
And he felt upon his forehead 
Blows of little airy war-clubs, 
Wielded by the slumbrous legions 
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
As of some one breathing on him. 

At the first blow of their war-clubs 
Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind ; 
At the second blow they smote him. 
Motionless his paddle rested ; 
At the third, before his vision 



THE GHOSTS. 



347 



Reeled the landscape into darkness, 
Very sound asleep was Kwasind. 

So he floated down the river, 
Like a blind man seated upright, 



Drifted empty down the river. 
Bottom upward swerved and drifted : 
Nothing more was seen of Kwasind. 
liut the memory of the Strong Man 




Floated down the Taquamenaw, 
Underneath the trembling birch-trees, 
Underneath the wooded headlands, 
Underneath the war encampment 
Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies. 

There they stood, all armed and wait- 
ing, 
Hurled the pine-cones down upon him. 
Struck him on his brawny shoulders. 
On his crown defenceless struck him. 
" Death to Kwasind ! " was the sudden 
War-cry of the Little People. 

And he sideways swayed and tumbled. 
Sideways fell into the river, 
Plunged beneath the sluggish water 
I Icadlon;:;, as an otter plunges ; 
And the birch-canoe, abandoned, 



Lingered long among the people. 
And whenever through the forest 
Raged and roared the wintry tempest. 
And the branches, tossed and troubled. 
Creaked and groaned and split asunder. 
"Kwasind ! " cried they ; "that is Kwa- 
sind ! 
He is gathering in his fire-wood ! " 

XIX. 

THE GHOSTS. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture 
On his quarry in the desert, 
On the sick or wounded bison. 
But another vulture, watching 



348 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



From his high aerial look-out, 
Sees the downward plunge, and fol- 
lows ; 
And a third pursues the second, 
Coming from the invisible ether. 
First a speck, and then a vulture, 
Till the air is dark with pinions. 
So disasters come not singly ; 
But as if they watched and waited, 



Till the plains were strewn with white- 
ness. 
One uninterrupted level, 
As if, stooping, the Creator 
With his hand had smoothed them over. 
Through the forest, wide and wailing, 
Roamed the hunter on his snow-shoes ; 
In the village worked the women, 
Pounded maize, or dressed the deer-skin ; 





Scanning one another's motions. 
When the first descends, the others 
Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise 
Round their victim, sick and wounded. 
First a shadow, then a sorrow. 
Till the air is dark with anguish. 

Now, o'er all the dreary Northland, 
Mighty Peboan, the Winter, 
Breathing on the lakes and rivers. 
Into stone had changed their waters. 
From his hair he shook the snow-flakes, 



And the young men played together 

On the ice the noisy ball-play. 

On the plain the dance of snow-shoes. 

One dark evening, after sundown. 
In her wigwam Laughing Water 
Sat with old Nokomis, waiting 
For the steps of Hiawatha 
Homeward from the hunt returning. 

On their faces gleamed the fire-light. 
Painting them with streaks of crimson, 
In the eyes of old Nokomis 



Glimmered like the watery moonlight, 
In the eyes of Laughing Water 
Glistened Ifke the sun in water ; 
And behind them crouched their shadows 
In the corners of the wigwam, 
And the smoke in wreaths above them 
Climbed and crowded through the smoke- 
flue. 

Then the curtain of the doorway 
From without was slowly lifted ; 
Brighter glowed the fire a moment, 
And a moment swerved the smoke- 
wreath, 
As two women entered softly. 
Passed the doorway uninvited, 
Without word of salutation, 
Without sign of recognition, 
Sat down in the farthest corner. 
Crouching low among the shadows. 

From their aspect and their garments, 
Strangers seemed they in the village ; 
Very pale and haggard were they, 
As they sat there sad and silent, 
Trembling, cowering with the shadows. 

Was it the wind above the smoke-flue, 
Muttering down into the wigwam ? 
Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, 
Hooting from the dismal forest ? 
Sure a voice said in the silence : 
" These are corpses clad in garments, 
These are ghosts that come to haunt you, 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter ! " 

Homeward now came Hiawatha 
From his hunting in the forest. 
With the snow upon his tresses. 
And the red deer on his shoulders. 
At the feet of Laughing Water 
Down he threw his lifeless burden ; 
Nobler, handsomer she thought him, 
'I'han when first he came to woo her. 
First threw down the deer before her, 
As a token of his wishes. 
As a promise of the future. 

Then he turned and saw the strangers, 
Cowering, crouching with the shadows ; 
Said within himself, " Who are they .-' 
What strange guests has Minnehaha.'"' 
But he questioned not the strangers, 
Only spake to bid them welcome 
To his lodge, his food, his fireside. 

When the evening meal was ready. 
And the deer lind been divided. 



Poth the pallid guests, the strangers. 
Springing from among the shadows. 
Seized upon the choicest portions. 
Seized the white fat of the roebuck, 
Set apart for Laughing Water, 
For the wife of Hiawatha ; 
Without asking, without thanking. 
Eagerly devoured the morsels, 
Flitted back among the shadows 
In the corner of the wigwam. 

Not a word spake Hiawatha, 
Not a motion made Nokomis, 
Not a gesture Laughing Water ; 
Not a change came o'er their features ; 
Only Minnehaha softly 
Whispered, saying, " They are famished ; 
Let them do what best delights them ; 
Let them eat, for they are famished." 

Many a daylight dawned and darkened, 
Many a night shook off the daylight 
As the pine shakes off' the snow-flakes 
From the midnight of its branches ; 
Day by day the guests unmoving 
Sat there silent in the wigwam ; 
But by night, in storm or starlight. 
Forth they went into the forest. 
Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, 
Bringing pine-cones for the burning. 
Always sad and always silent. 

And whenever Hiawatha 
Came from fishing or from hunting, 
When the evening meal was ready. 
And the food had been divided. 
Gliding from their darksome corner. 
Came the pallid guests, the strangers. 
Seized upon the choicest portions 
Set aside for Laughing Water, 
And without rebuke or question 
Flitted back among the shadows. 

Never once had Hiawatha 
By a word or look reproved them ; 
Never once had old Nokomis 
Made a gesture of impatience ; 
Never once had Laughing Water 
Shown resentment at the outrage. 
All had they endured in silence. 
That the rights of guest and stranger. 
That the virtue of free-giving, 
By a look might not be lessened, 
By a word might not be broken. 

Once at midnight Hiawatha, 
Ever wakeful, ever watchful, 
In the wigwam, dimly lighted 



350 



THE SONG OF HI A IVA THA. 



By the brands that still were burning, 
By the glimmering, flickering fire-light, 
Heard a sighing, oft repeated. 
Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. 

From his couch rose Hiawatha, 
From his shaggy hides of bison, 
Pushed aside the deer-skin curtain, 
Saw the pallid guests, the shadows. 
Sitting upright on their couches. 
Weeping in the silent midnight. 

And he said : " O guests ! why is it 
That your hearts are so afflicted. 
That you sob so in the midnight ? 
Has perchance the old Nokomis, 
Has my wife, my Minnehaha, 
Wronged or grieved you by unkindness. 
Failed in hospitable duties .'' " 

Then the shadows ceased from weeping. 
Ceased from sobbing and lamenting. 
And they said, with gentle voices : 
" We are ghosts of the departed. 
Souls of those who once were with you. 
From the realms of Chibiabos 
Hither have we come to try you. 
Hither have we come to warn you. 

" Cries of grief and lamentation 
Reach us in the blessed Islands ; 
Cries of anguish from the living, 
Calling back their friends departed, 
Sadden us with useless sorrow. 
Therefore have we come to try you : 
No one knows us, no one heeds us. 
We are but a burden to you. 
And we see that the departed 
Have no place among the living. 

" Think of this, O Hiawatha ! 
Speak of it to all the people. 
That henceforward and forever 
They no more with lamentations 
Sadden the souls of the departed 
In the Islands of the Blessed. 

" Do not lay such heavy burdens 
In the graves of those you bury. 
Not such weight of furs and wampum, 
Not such weight of pots and kettles, 
For the spirits faint beneath them. 
Only give them food to carry, 
Only give them fire to light them. 

" Four days is the spirit's journey 
To the land of ghosts and shadows, 
Four its lonely night encampments ; 
Four times must their fires be lighted. 
Therefore, when the dead are buried, 



Let a fire, as night approaches. 
Four times on the grave be kindled, 
That the soul upon its journey 
May not lack the cheerful fire-light, 
May not grope about in darkness. 

" Farewell, noble Hiawatha ! 
We have put you to the trial. 
To the proof have put your patience, 
By the insult of our presence, 
By the outrage of our actions. 
We have found you great and noble. 
Fail not in the greater trial. 
Faint not in the harder struggle." 

When they ceased, a sudden darkness 
Fell and filled the silent wigwam. 
Hiawatha heard a rustle 
As of garments trailing by him. 
Heard the curtain of the doorway 
Lifted by a hand he saw not. 
Felt the cold breath of the night-air, 
For a moment saw the starlight ; 
But he saw the ghosts no longer, 
Saw no more the wandering spirits 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter. 

XX. 

THE FAMINE. 

O THE long and dreary Winter ! 
O the cold and cruel Winter ! 
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 
Froze the ice on lake and river. 
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape. 
Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
Through the forest, round the village. 

Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
Vainly walked he through the forest. 
Sought for bird or beast and found i one, 
Saw no track of deer or rabbit. 
In the snow beheld no footprints, 
In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 
Perished there from cold and hunger. 

O the famine and the fever ! 
O the wasting of the famine ! 
O the blasting of the fever ! 
O the wailing of the children ! 
O the anguish of the women ! 



THE FAMINE. 



351 



All the earth was sick and famished ; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 

Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
Waited not to be invited, 
Did not parley at the doorway, 
Sat there without word of welcome 
In the seat of Laughing Water ; 
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said : " Behold me ! 
I am Famine, Bukadawin ! " 
And the other said : " Behold me ! 
I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 

And the lovely Minnehaha 
Shuddered as they looked upon her. 
Shuddered at the words they uttered, 
Lay down on her bed in silence. 
Hid her face, but made no answer ; 
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
At the looks they cast upon her. 
At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha ; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow. 
In his face a stony firmness ; 
On his brow the sweat of anguish. 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 

Wrapped in furs and armed for hunt- 
ing, 

With his mighty bow of ash-tree. 

With his quiver full of arrows, 

With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 

Into the vast and vacant forest 

On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 
" Gitche Manito the Mighty ! " 

Cried he with his face uplifted 

In that bitter hour of anguish, 

" Give your children food, O father ! 

Give us food, or we must perish ! 

Give me food for Minnehaha, 

For my dying Minnehaha ! " 
Through the far-resounding forest, 

Through the forest vast and vacant 

Rang that cry of desolation, 

But there came no other answer 

Than the echo of his crying. 

Than the echo of the woodlands, 

" Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! " 



All day long roved Hiawatha 
In that melancholy forest. 
Through the shadow of whose thickets. 
In the pleasant days of Summer, 
Of that ne'er forgotten Summer, 
He had brought his young wife home- 
ward 
From the land of the Dacotahs ; 
When the birds sang in the thickets, 
And the streamlets laughed and glistened, 
And the air was full of fragrance. 
And the lovely Laughing Water 
Said with voice that did not tremble, 
" I will follow you, my husband ! " 

In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests, that watched 

her. 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She the dying Minnehaha. 

" Hark ! " she said : " I hear a rush- 
ing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees ! " 

" Look ! " she said ; " I see my father 
Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! " 
" No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
" 'T is the smoke, that waves and beck- 
ons ! " 

" Ah ! " she said, " the eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness 1 
Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 
Far away amid the forest. 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
" Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 

Over snow-fields waste and pathless, 
Under snow-encumbered branches. 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing : 
" Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
Would that I had perished for you. 



352 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Would that I were dead as you are ! 
Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
Lying dead and cold before him. 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shuddered. 



Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 
Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
In the snow a grave they made her, 
In the forest deep and darksome, 
Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
Clothed her in her richest garments. 
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine. 
Covered her with snow, like ermine ; 
Thus thev buried Minnehaha. 




That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his anguish. 

Then he sat down, still and speech- 
less, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 
More would lightly run to meet him. 
Nevermore would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he covered, 
Seven long days and nights he sat there. 
As if in a swoon he sat there. 



And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kindled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the doorway. 
That it might not be extinguished. 
Might not leave her in the darkness. 



THE WHITE 


MAN'S FOOT. 353 


" Farewell ! " said he, " Minnehaha ! 


From his pouch he drew his peace- 


Farewell, O my Laughing Water ! 


pipe, 


All my heart is buried with you, 


Very old and strangely fashioned ; 


All my thoughts go onward with you ! 


Made of red stone was the pipe-head, 


Come not back again to labor, 


And the stem a reed with feathers ; 


Come not back again to suffer. 


Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 


Where the Famine and the Fever 


Placed a burning coal upon it. 


Wear the heart and waste the body. 


Gave it to his guest, the stranger. 


Soon my task will be completed. 


And began to speak in this wise : 


Soon your footsteps I shall follow 


" When I blow my breath about me, 


To the Islands of the Blessed, 


When I breathe upon the landscape. 


To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 


Motionless are all the rivers. 


To the Land of the Hereafter ! " 


Hard as stone becomes the water ! " 




And the young man answered, smil- 


XXL 


ing: 




" When I blow my breath about me, 


THE WHITE man's FOOT. 


When I breathe upon the landscape, 




Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, 


In his lodge beside a river, 


Singing, onward rush the rivers ! " 


Close beside a frozen river. 


" When I shake my hoary tresses," 


Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 


Said the old man darkly frowning. 


White his hair was as a snow-drift ; 


" All the land with snow is covered ; 


Dull and low his fire was burning. 


All the leaves from all the branches 


And the old man shook and trembled. 


Fall and fade and die and wither. 


Folded in his Waubewyon, 


For I breathe, and lo ! they are not. 


In his tattered white-skin wrapper, 


From the waters and the marshes 


Hearing nothing but the tempest 


Rise the wild-goose and the heron, 


As it roared along the forest. 


Fly away to distant regions. 


Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 


For I speak, and lo ! they are not. 


As it whirled and hissed and drifted. 


And where'er my footsteps wander, 


All the coals were white with ashes. 


All the wild beasts of the forest 


And the fire was slowly dying. 


Hide themselves in holes and caverns, 


As a young man, walking lightly, 


And the earth becomes as flintstone ! " 


At the open doorway entered. 


" When I shake my flowing ringlets," 


Red with blood of youth his cheeks 


Said the young man, softly laughing, 


were, 


" Showers of rain fall warm and wel- 


Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring-time, 


come. 


Bound his forehead was with grasses. 


Plants lift up their heads rejoicing. 


Bound and plumed with scented grasses ; 


Back unto their lakes and marshes 


On his lips a smile of beauty, 


Come the wild-goose and the heron, 


Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 


Homeward shoots the .arrowy swal- 


In his hand a bunch of blossoms 


low. 


Filling all the lodge with sweetness. 


Sing the bluebird and the robin. 


" Ah, my son ! " exclaimed the old 


And where'er my footsteps wander, 


man, 


All the meadows wave with blossoms, 


" Happy are my eyes to see you. 


All the woodlands ring with music. 


Sit here on the mat beside me, 


All the trees are dark with foliage ! " 


Sit here by the dying embers. 


While they spake, the night departed : 


Let us pass the night together. 


From the distant realms of Wabun, 


Tell me of your strange adventures, 


From his shining lodge of silver. 


Of the lands where you have travelled ; 


Like a warrior robed and painted. 


I will tell you of my prowess, 


Came the sun, and said, " Behold me ! 


Of my many deeds of wonder." 
23 


Gheezis, the great sun, behold me ! " 



354 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



Then the old man's tongue was 
speechless 
And the air grew warm and pleasant, 
And upon the wigwam sweetly 
Sang the bluebird and the robin, 
And the stream began to murmur, 
And a scent of growing grasses 
Through the lodge was gently wafted. 
And Segwun, the youthful stranger 
More distinctly in the daylight 
Saw the icy face before him ; 
It was Peboan, the Winter ! 

From his eyes the tears were flowing, 
As from melting lakes the streamlets, 
And his body shrunk and dwindled 
As the shouting sun ascended. 
Till into the air it faded, 
Till into the ground it vanished. 
And the young man saw before him. 
On the hearth-stone of the wigwam. 
Where the fire had smoked and smoul- 
dered. 
Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, 
Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, 
Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the North-land 
After that unheard-of coldness. 
That intolerable Winter, 
Came the Spring with all its splendor, 
All its birds and all its blossoms, 
All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 

Sailing on the wind to northward. 
Flying in great flocks, like arrows, 
Like huge arrows shot through heaven, 
Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, 
Speaking almost as a man speaks ; 
And in long lines waving, bending 
Like a bow-string snapped asunder. 
Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa ; 
And in pairs, or singly flying, 
Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 
Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
On the summit of the lodges 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
In the covert of the pine-trees 
Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee, 
And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 
Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 
Heard their voices calling to him, 
Went forth from his gloomy doorway. 



Stood and gazed into the heaven. 
Gazed upon the earth and waters. 

From his wanderings far to eastward. 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun, 
Homeward now returned lagoo. 
The great traveller, the great boaster, 
Full of new and strange adventures, 
Marvels many and many wonders. 

And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures. 
Laughing answered him in this wise : 
" Ugh ! it is indeed lagoo ! 
No one else beholds such wonders ! " 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, 
Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 
Bitter so that none could drink it ! 
At each other looked the warriors, 
Looked the women at each other. 
Smiled, and said, " It cannot be so ! 
Kaw ! " they said, " it cannot be so ! " 

O'er it, said he, o'er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 
A canoe with wings came flying. 
Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, 
Taller than the tallest tree-tops ! 
And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other ; 
" Kaw ! " they said, " we don't believe 
it ! " 

From its mouth, he said, to greet him, 
Came Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Came the thunder, Annemeekee ! 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed aloud at poor lagoo ; 
" Kaw ! " they said, " what tales you tell 
us ! " 

In it, said he, came a people. 
In the great canoe with pinions 
Came, he said, a hundred warriors ; 
Painted white were all their faces. 
And with hair their chins were covered I 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed and shouted in derision, 
Like the ravens on the tree-tops. 
Like the crows upon the hemlocks. 
" Kaw ! " they said, " what lies you tell 

us ! 
Do not think that we believe them ! " 

Only Hiawatha laughed not, 
But he gravely spake and answered 



To their jeering and their jesting : 
" True is all lagoo tells us ; 
I have seen it in a vision, 
Seen the great canoe with pinions 
Seen the people with white faces, 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel 
From the regions of the morning. 
From the shining land of Wabun. 



Hail them as our friends and brothers, 
And the heart's right hand of friendship 
Give them when they come to see us. 
Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
Said this to me in my vision. 

" I beheld, too, in that vision 
All the secrets of the future, 
Of the distant days that shall be. 
I beheld the westward marches 




1^1/'^' r 



" Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Sends them hither on his errand, 
Sends them to us with his message. 
Wheresoe'er they move, before them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker ; 
Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them 
Springs a flower unknown among us. 
Springs the White-man's Foot in blos- 
som. 

" Let us welcome, then, the strangers. 



Of the unknown, crowded nations. 
All the land was full of people. 
Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, 
Speaking many tongues, yet feeling 
But one heart-beat in their bosoms. 
In the woodlands rang their axes. 
Smoked their towns in all the valleys, 
Over all the lakes and rivers 
Rushed their great canoes of thunder. 

" Then a darker, drearier vision 
Passed before me, vague and cloud-like ; 
I beheld our nation scattered. 



356 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



All forgetful of my counsels, 
Weakened, warring with each other ; 
Saw the remnants of our people 
Sweeping westward, wild and woful, 
Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 
Like the withered leaves of Autumn ! " 

xxn. 

HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE. 

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea- Water, 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
In the pleasant Summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 

All the air was full of freshness, 
All the earth was bright and joyous, 
And before him, through the sunshine, 
Westward toward the neighboring forest 
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 
Passed the bees, the honey-makers, 
Burning, singing in the sunshine. 

Bright above him shone the heavens, 
Level spread the lake before him ; 
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, 
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine ; 
On its margin the great forest 
Stood reflected in the water. 
Every tree-top had its shadow, 
Motionless beneath the water. 

From the brow of Hiawatha 
Gone was every trace of sorrow. 
As the fog from off the water. 
As the mist from off the meadow. 
With a smile of joy and triumph, 
With a look of exultation. 
As of one who in a vision 
Sees what is to to be, but is not, 
Stood and waited Hiawatha. 

Toward the sun his hands were lifted, 
Both the palms spread out against it, 
And between the parted fingers 
Fell the sunshine on his features, 
Flecked with light his naked shoulders, 
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree 
Through the rifted leaves and branches. 

O'er the water floating, flying. 
Something in the hazy distance. 
Something in the mists of morning, 
Loomed and lifted from the water. 
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying. 
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 



Was it Shingebis the diver .'' 
Or the pelican, the Shada "i 
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah ? 
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 
With the water dripping, flashing 
From its glossy neck and feathers ? 

It was neither goose nor diver, 
Neither pelican nor heron. 
O'er the water floating, flying, 
Through the shining mist of morning. 
But a birch-canoe with paddles, 
Rising, sinking on the water, 
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine ; 
And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 
From the farthest realms of morning 
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, 
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, 
With his guides and his companions. 

And the noble Hiawatha, 
With his hands aloft extended. 
Held aloft in sign of welcome. 
Waited, full of exultation. 
Till the birch canoe with paddles 
Grated on the shining pebbles, 
Stranded on the sandy margin. 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, 
With the cross upon his bosom. 
Landed on the sandy margin. 

Then the joyous Hiawatha 
Cried aloud and spake in this wise : 
" Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, 
When you come so far to see us ! 
All our town in peace awaits you. 
All our doors stand open for you ; 
You shall enter all our wigwams. 
For the heart's right hand we give you. 

" Never bloomed the earth so gayly, 
Never shone the sun so brightly, 
As to-day they shine and blossom 
When you come so far to see us ! 
Never was our lake so tranquil. 
Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars ; 
For your birch-canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sand-bar. 

" Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, 
Never the broad leaves of our cornfields 
Were so beautiful to look on, 
As they seem to us this morning. 
When you come so far to see us ! " 

And the Black-Robe chief made an- 
swer, 



HI A IV A THA'S DEPAR TURE. 



357 



Stammered in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar : 
*' Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 
Peace be with you and your people. 
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, 
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary ! " 

Then the generous Hiawatha 
Led the strangers to his wigwam. 
Seated them on skins of bison, 



And the medicine-men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome ; 
" It is well," they said, " O brothers, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

In a circle round the doorway. 
With their pipes they sat in silence, 
Waiting to behold the strangers, 
Waiting to receive their message, 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face. 




Seated them on skins of ermine, 
And the careful old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of bass- 
wood, 
Water brought in birchen dippers, 
And the calumet, the peace-pipe. 
Filled and lighted for their smoking. 

All the old men of the village. 
All the warriors of the nation. 
All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 



From the wigwam came to greet them, 
Stammering in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 
" It is well," they said, " O brother, 
That you come so far to see us ! " 
Then the Black-Robe chief, tr 
prophet. 
Told his message to the peo])Ie, 
Told the purport of his mission, 
Told them of the Virgin Mary, 
And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 



358 



THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 



How in distant lands and ages 
He had lived on earth as we do : 
How he fasted, prayed, and labored ; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified 

him ; 
How he rose from where they laid him. 
Walked again with his disciples. 
And ascended into heaven. 

And the chiefs made answer, saying : 
" We have listened to your message, 
We have heard your words of wisdom, 
We will think on what you tell us. 
It is well for us, O brothers. 
That you come so far to see us ! " 

Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wigwam. 
To the young men and the women 
Told the story of the strangers 
Whom the Master of Life had sent them 
From the shining land of Wabun. 

Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of Summer ; 
With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wigwam, 
With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it ; 
From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless 
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena ; 
And the guests of Hiawatha, 
Weary with the heat of Summer, 
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 

Slowly o'er the simmering landscape 
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness, 
And the long and level sunbeams 
Shot their spears into the forest, 
Breaking through its shields of shadow, 
Rushed into each secret ambush. 
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow : 
Still the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 

From his place rose Hiawatha, 
Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise, 
Did not wake the guests, that slumbered : 
" I am going, O Nokomis, 
On a long and distant journey. 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the regions of the home-wind. 
Of the North-west wind, Keewaydin. 
But these guests I leave behind me, 
In your watch and ward I leave them ; 
See that never harm comes near them, 



See that never fear molests them, 
Never danger nor suspicion. 
Never want of food or shelter, 
In the lodge of Hiawatha ! " 

Forth into the village went he, 
Bade farewell to all the warriors, 
Bade farewell to all the young men, 
Spake persuading, spake in this wise : 

" I am going, O my people, 
On a long and distant journey ; 
Many moons and many winters 
Will have come, and will have vanished. 
Ere I come again to see you. 
But my guests I leave behind me ; 
Listen to their words of wisdom, 
Listen to the truth they tell you. 
For the Master of Life has sent them 
From the land of light and morning ! " 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
Turned and waved his hand at parting ; 
On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing. 
From the pebbles of the margin 
Shoved it forth into the water ; 
Whispered to it, " Westward ! west- 
ward ! " 
And with speed it darted forward. 
And the evening sun descending 
Set the clouds on fire with redness. 
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie, 
Left upon the level water 
One long track and trail of splendor, 
Down whose stream, as down a river, 
Westward, westward Hiawatha 
Sailed into the fiery sunset, 
Sailed into the purple vapors. 
Sailed into the dusk of evening. 

And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking, 
Till the birch-canoe seemed lifted 
High into that sea of splendor, 
Till it sank into the vapors 
Like the new moon slowly, slowly 
Sinking in the purple distance. 

And they said, " Farewell forever ! " 
Said, " Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 
And the forests, dark and lonely. 
Moved through all their depths of dark- 
ness. 
Sighed, " Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 
And the waves upon the margin 
Rising, rippling on the pebbles, 
Sobbed, " Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 



VOCABULARY. 



359 



And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 


In the purple mists of evening, 


From her haunts among the fen-lands, 


To the regions of the home-wind, 


Screamed, " Farewell, O Hiawatha ! " 


Of the Northwest-wind Keewaydin. 


Thus departed Hiawatha, 


To the Islands of the Blessed, 


Hiawatha the Beloved, 


To the kingdom of Ponemah, 


In the glory of the sunset, 


To the land of the Hereafter ! 




VOCABULARY. 



Adjidau'mo, the red squirrel. 

Ahdeek', the reindeer. 

Ahkose'win, fever. 

Ahmeek', the beaver. 

Algon'quin, Ojibway, 

Annemee'kee, the thunder. 

Apuk'wa, a bulrush. 

Baim-wa'wa, the sound of the thunder. 

Bemah'gut, the grape-vine. 

Be'na, the pheasant. 

Big-Sea- Water, Lake Superior. 

Bukada'win, famine. 

Cheemaun', a birch-catioe. 

Chetowaik', the plover. 

Chibia'bos, a musician ; friend of Hia^oa- 

tha ; ruler in the Land of Spirits. 
Dahin'da, the bullfrog. 
Dush-kwo-ne'she, or Kwo-ne'she, the 

dragon-fly. 
Esa, shame upon you. 



Ewa-yea', lullaby. 

Ghee'zis, the sun. 

Gitche Gu'mee, the Big-Sea- Water, 
Lake Superior. 

Gitche Man'ito, the Great Spirit, the Mas- 
ter of Life. 

Gushkewau', the darkness. 

Hiawa'tha, the Wise Man, the Teacher; 
son of Mudjekeewis, the West-Wind, 
and Wenonah, daughter of Nokomis. 

la'goo, a gi-eat boaster and story-teller. 

Inin'ewug, men, or pawns in the Game 
of the Bozvl. 

Ishkoodah', fire ; a comet. 

Jee'bi, a ghost, a spirit. 

Joss'akeed, a prophet. 

Kabibonok'ka, the North- Wind. 

Kagh, the hedgehog. 

Ka'go, do not. 

Kahgahgee', the raven. 



36o THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


Kaw, 110. 


Nee-ba-naw'baigs, water-spirits. 


Kaween', no indeed.' 


Nenemoo'sha, sweetheart. 


Kayoshk', the sea-gidl. 


Nepah'win, sleep. 


Kee'go, a fish. 


Noko'mis, a grandmother ; mother of 


Keeway'din, the Northwest-wind, the 


Wenonah. 


Home-7ui)id. 


No'sa, my father. 


Kena'beek, a serpent. 


Nush'ka, look ! look ! 


Keneu', the great war-eagle. 


Odah'min, the strawberry. 


Keno'zha, the pickerel. 


Okahah'wis, the fresh-water herring. 


Ko'ko-ko'ho, the owl. 


Ome'me, the pigeon. 


Kuntasoo', the Game of Plum-stones. 


Ona'gon, a bowl. 


Kwa'sind, the Strong Alan. 


Onaway', azvake. 


Kwo-ne'she, or Dush-kwo-ne'she, the 


Ope'chee, the robin. 


dragon-fly. 


Osse'o, Son of the Evening Star. 


Mahnahbe'zee, the swan. 


Owais'sa, t/ie bluebird. 


Mahng, the loon. 


Oweenee', wife of Osseo. 


Mahn-go-tay'see, loon-hearted, brave. 


Ozawa'beek, a round piece of brass or cop- 


Mahnomo'nee, wild rice. 


per in the Game of the Bowl. 


Ma'ma, the woodpecker. 


Pah-puk-kee'na, the grasshopper. 


Maskeno'zha, the pike. 


Pau'guk, death. 


Me'da, a medicine-man. 


Pau-Puk-Kee'wis, the handsome Yena- 


Meenah'ga, the blueberry. 


dizze, the Storm-Fool. 


Megissog'won, the great Pearl- Feather, a 


Pauwa'ting, Saut Sainte Marie. 


fnagician, and the Manito of Wealth. 


Pe'boan, Winter. 


Meshinau'wa, a pipe-bearer. 


Pem'ican, 7neat of the deer or buffalo dried 


Minjekah'wun, Hiawatha's mittens. 


and pounded. 


Minneha'ha, Laughing Water ; a water- 


Pezhekee', tlie bison. 


fall on a stream running into the Mis- 


Pishnekuh', the brant. 


sissippi, between Fort Snelling and the 


Pone'mah, hereafter. 


Falls of St. Anthony. 


Pugasaing', Game of the Bowl. 


Minneha'ha, Laughing Water ; wife of 


Puggawau'gun, a war-club. 


Hiawatha. 


Puk-Wudj'ies, little wild men of ike 


Minne-wa'wa, a pleasant sozmd, as of the 


wood ; pygmies. 


wind in the trees. 


Sah-sah-je'wun, rapids. 


Mishe-Mo'kwa, the Great Bear. 


Sah'wa, the perch. 


Mishe-Nah'ma, the Great Sturgeon. 


Segwun', Spring. 


Miskodeed', the Spring- Beauty, the Clay- 


Sha'da, the pelican. 


tonia Virginica. 


Shahbo'min, the gooseberry. 


Monda'min, Itidian corn. 


Shah-shah, long ago. 


Moon of Bright Nights, April. 


Shaugoda'ya, a coward. 


Moon of Leaves, May. 


Shawgashee', the craw-fish. 


Moon of Strawberries, yune. 


Shawonda'see, the South- Wind. 


Moon of the Falling Leaves, September, 


Shaw-shaw, the swallow. 


Moon of Snow-shoes, November. 


Shesh'ebwug, ducks ; pieces tn the Game 


Mudjekee'wis, the West- Wind ; father of 


of the Bowl. 


Hiawatha. 


Shin'gebis, the diver, or grebe. 


Mudway-aush'ka, sound of waves on a 


Showain' neme'shin, pity me. 


shore. 


Shuh-shuh'gah, the blue heron. 


Mushkoda'sa, the grouse. 


Soan-ge-ta'ha, strong-hearted. 


Nah'ma, the sturgeon. 


Subbeka'she, the spider. 


Nah'ma-wusk', spearmint. 


Sugge'ma, the mosquito. 


Na'gow Wudj'oo, the Sand Dunes of Lake 


To'ttm, family coat of arms. 


Superior. 


Ugh, yes. 



VOCABULARY. 



■^61 



Ugudwash', the sun-fish. 

Unktahee', the God of Water. 

Wabas'so, the rabbit ; the North. 

Wabe'no, a magician, a juggler. 

Wabe'no-wusk, yarrow. 

Wa'bun, the East- Wind. 

Wa'bun An'nung, the Star of the East, 

the Morning Star. 
Wahono'win, a cry of lamentation. 
Wah-wah-tay'see, the fire-fly. 
Wam'pum, beads of s/iell. 



Waube^vy'on, a white skin wrapper, 
Wa'wa, the wild-goose. 
Waw'beek, a rock. 
Waw-be-wa'\va, the white goose. 
Wawonais'sa, the whippoorwill. 
Way-muk-kwa'na, the caterpillar. 
Wen'digoes, giants. 
Weno'nah, Hiawatha^s mother, daughter 

of A^okomis. 
Yenadiz'ze, an idler and gambler ; an 

Indian dandy. 





THE COURTSHIP OF MILES 
STANDISH. 



MILES STANDISH. 

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, 

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather. 

Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain, 

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing 

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare. 

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, — 

Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, 

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, 

While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock,. 

Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic. 

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron ; 

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already 

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. 

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion,. 

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window ; 



MILES STANDISH. 363 



Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, 
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives 
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, " Not Angles, but Angels." 
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower. 

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting. 
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. 
" Look at these arms," he said, " the warlike weapons that hang here 
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection ! 
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders ; this breastplate, 
Well I remember the day ! once saved my life in a skirmish ; 
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet 
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabuc^o. 
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish 
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing : 
" Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet ; 
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon ! " 
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling : 
" See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging ; 
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. 
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage ; 
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. 
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army. 
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, 
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage. 
And, like Csesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers ! " •( 

This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams 
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. 
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued : 
" Look ! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted 
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose. 
Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic. 
Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. 
Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians ; 
Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better, — 
Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, 
Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon ! " 

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, 
Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind. 
Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean. 
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. 
Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape. 
Gloom intermingled with light ; and his voice was subdued with emotion. 
Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded : 
" Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish ; 
Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside ! 
She was the first to die of all who came in the May Flower ! 
Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there. 
Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people. 
Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished ! " 
Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was tlioughtful. 



364 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAND I SH. 

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them 
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding ; 
Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar 
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, 
And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. 
Musing a moment before them. Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful 
Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort. 
Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, 
Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. 
Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, 
Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence 
Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, 
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 
Busily writing epistles important, to go by the May Flower, 




Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing ! 
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, 
Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, 
Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ! 

H. 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 

Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, 

Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar. 

After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards, 

Heavily on the page : " A wonderful man was this Caesar ! 

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow 

Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful ! " 

Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful : 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 365 

" Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with his pen and his weapons. 

Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate 

Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs." 

" Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, 

" Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cassar ! 

Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, 

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. 

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after ; 

Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered ; 

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded ; 

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus ! 

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, 

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too. 

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together 

There was no room for their swords ? Why, he seized a shield from' a soldier, 

Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains, 

Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns ; 

Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons ; 

So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. 

That 's what I always say ; if you wish a thing to be well done. 

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! " 

All was silent again ; the Captain continued his reading. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling 
Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower, 
Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla ; 
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, 
Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret. 
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla ! 
Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover. 
Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket. 
Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth : 
" When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you. 
Be not however in haste ; I can wait ; I shall not be impatient ! " 
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters. 
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention : 
" Speak ; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, 
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish." 
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases : 
" 'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. 
This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it ; 
Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. 
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary ; 
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship. 
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. 
She is alone in the world ; her father and mother and brother 
Died in the winter together ; I saw her going and coming, 
Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying. 
Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever 
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven. 
Two have I seen and known ; and the angel whose name is Priscilla 
Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. 
Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, 



366 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. 

Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden in Plymouth, 

Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions, 

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. 

Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning ; 

I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language. 

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, 

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden." 

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, 
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered. 
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness. 
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom. 
Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning. 
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered : 
" Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it ; 
If you would have it well done, — I am only repeating your maxim, — 
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others ! " 
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, 
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth : 
" Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it ; 
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. 
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. 
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender. 
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. 
I 'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, 
But of a thundering ' No ! ' point-blank from the mouth of a woman, 
That I confess I 'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it ! 
So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar. 
Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases." 
Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, 
Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added : 
" Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me 
Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship ! " 
Then made answer John Alden : " The name of friendship is sacred ; 
What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you ! " 
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentlei, 
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. 

III. 

THE lover's errand. 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand. 
Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, 
Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building 
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure. 
Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. 
All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, 
Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. 
To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing. 
As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel. 



THE LOVER'S ERRAND. 



i67 



Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean ! 

" Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild lamentation, — 

" Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion ? 

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence ? 




Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow 
Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England ? 
Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption 
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion ; 
Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. 
All is clear to me now ; I feel it, I see it distinctly ! 
This is the hand of the Lord ; it is laid upon me in anger. 
For I have followed too much the heart's desires and devices. 
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. 
This is the cross I must bear ; the sin and the swift retribution." 

So through the Plymouth woods, John Alden went on his errand ; 
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it biawled over pebble and shallow, 
Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, 
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness. 
Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber. 
" Puritan flowers," he said, " and the type of Puritan maidens, 
Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla ! 



368 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAND ISH. 



So I will take them to her ; to Priscilla the May-flower of Plymouth^ 
Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will I take them ; 
Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, 
Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver." 
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; 
Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, 
Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind j 
Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow ; 
Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla 
Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, 
Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, 
Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. 
Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden 
Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift 
Piled at her knee, her left hand feeding the ravenous spindle, 
"While with her right she sped, or reversed the wheel in its motiora. 




Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, 

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together. 

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, 

Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. 

Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem. 

She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest. 

Making the humble house and the modest apparel of homespun 

Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being ! 

Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless. 

Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his errand ; 

All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, 

All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, 

Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. 

Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, 

" Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards ; 

Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains, 

Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the living, 

It is the will of the Lord ; and his mercy endureth forever ! " 



THE LOP'ER'S ERRAND. 



569 



So he entpred the house : and the hum of the wheel and the singing 
Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, 
Rose as \^ entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, 
Saying, I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage ; 
For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning." 
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, 
Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, 
Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in the winter, 
After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, 
Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the doorway, 
Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla 




Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside. 
Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm. 
Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain had he spoken ; 
Now it was all too late ; the golden moment had vanished ! 
So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. 

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring-time, 
Talked of their friends at home, and the May Flower that sailed on the morro\ 
" I have been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden, 
"Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of England,— 
They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden ; 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, 
.Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors 
24 



Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together, 

And, at the end of tlie street, the village church, with the ivy 

Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard. 

Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion ; 

Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. 

You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it ; I almost 

Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched." 

Thereupon answered the youth : " Indeed I do not condemn you ; 
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on ; 
So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage 
Made by a good man and true. Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth ! " 

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters, — 
Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases. 
But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a school-boy ; 
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. 
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden 
Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder. 
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her speechless ; 
Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence : 
" If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me. 
Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me ? 
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning ! " 
Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter. 
Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy, — 
Had no time for such things ; — such things ! the .words grating harshly 
Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift, as a flash she made answer : 
" Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, 
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding ? 
That is the way with you men ; you don't understand us, you cannot. 
When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and that one, 
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another. 
Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, 
And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman 
Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected. 
Does not attain at a bound the height to which you have been climbing. 
This is not right nor just : for surely a woman's affection 
Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. 
When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. 
Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me. 
Even this Captain of yours — who knows .■' — at last might have won me. 
Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can happen." 

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, 
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding ; 
Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, 
How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction, 
How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth ; 
He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly 
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, 
Who w.is the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish; 



JOHN ALDEN. 371 



Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, 

Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent 

Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. 

He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature ; 

Though he was rough, he was kindly ; she knew how during the winter 

He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman's ; 

Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, 

Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always. 

Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature ; 

For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous ; 

Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, 

Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish ! 

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, 
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, 
Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you speak for yourself, John ? ' 

IV. 

JOHN ALDEN. 

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered. 
Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the seaside ; 
Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind. 
Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. 
Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, 
Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, 
So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, 
Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted 
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. 

"Welcome, O wind of the East ! " he exclaimed in his wild exultation, 
" Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlantic ! 
Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, 
Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and gardens of ocean ! 
Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me 
Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me ! " 

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing. 
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. 
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending ; 
Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, 
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty ! 
" Is it my fault," he said, " that the maiden has chosen between us > 
Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that I am the victor ? " 
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Prophet : 
" It hath displeased the Lord ! " — and he thought of David's transgression, 
Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle ! 
Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and self-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed him at once ; and he cried in the deepest contrition : 
" It hath displeased the Lord ! It is the temptation of Satan ! " 



zr- 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STAA'DIS/I. 



Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beheld there 
Dimly the shadowy form of the May Flower riding at anchor, 
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow ; 
Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage 
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors' " Ay, ay, Sir 
Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. 
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, 
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, 
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. 
" Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured ; " the hand of the Lord is 
Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, 
Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, 
Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. 
Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, 
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. 
Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, 
Close by my mother's side, and among the dust of my kindred ; 




Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor ! 
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber 
With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers 
Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and darkness. 
Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter ! " 



Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolution, 
Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, 
Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, 
Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, 
Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. 
Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain 
Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Caesar, 
Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. 
"Long have you been on your errand," he said with a cheery demeanor, 
Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. 
" Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us ; 
But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming 



JOHN ALDEN. 



173 



I have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. 
Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened." 

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, 
From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened ; 
How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, 
Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. 
But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken. 
Words so tender and cruel : " Why don't you speak for yourself, John ^ " 
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor 
Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen. 
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, 
E'en as a hand-'Tcaade, that scatters destruction arouiul it. 




Wildly he shouted, and loud : " John Alden ! you have betrayed me ! 

Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me ! 

One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler ; 

Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a traitor .> 

Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship ! 

You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother ; 

You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keeping 

I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most sacred and secret, — 

You too, Brutus ! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter ! 

Brutus was Ccesar's friend, and you were mine, but henceforward 

Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred ! " 

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, 
Chafing and choking with rage ; like cords were the veins on his temples. 



But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, 
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, 
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians ! 
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley. 
Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron. 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed. 
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard 
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. 
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness. 
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, 
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood. 
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. 

Meanwhile the choleiuc Captain strode wrathful away to the council, 
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming ; 
Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment. 
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, 
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. 
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting. 
Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation ; 
So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people ! 
Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant. 
Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect ; 
"While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, 
Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, 
And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, 
Filled, like a quiver, with arrows ; a signal and challenge of warfare. 
Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. 
This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating 
What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace. 
Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting ; 
One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, 
Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted. 
Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior I 
Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, 
Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, 
" What ! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses ? 
Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted 
There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils ? 
Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage 
Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon ! " 
Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, 
Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language : 
" Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other Apostles ; 
Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with ! " 
But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, 
Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing : 
" Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. 
War is a terrible trade ; but in the cause that is righteous, 
Sweet is the smell of powder ; and thus I answer the challenge ! " 

Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, 
Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets 



THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. 



375 



Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, 
Saying, in thundering tones : " Here, take it ! this is your answer ! 
Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, 
Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, 
Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. 




THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWEK. 



Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, 
There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth ; 
Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, " Forward ! ' 
Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. 
Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. 
Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, 
Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, 
Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. 
Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David ; 
Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible, — 
Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. 
Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning ; 
Urider them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing. 
Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. 



376 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Plymouth 
Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors. 
Sweet was the air and soft ; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys 
Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward ; 
Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the weather, 
Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the May Flower ; 
Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the dangers that menaced. 
He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. 
Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women 
Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household. 
Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming ; 
Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains ; 
Beautiful on the sails of the May Flower riding at anchor. 
Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. 
Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, 
Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. 
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, 
Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward ; anon rang 
Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and the echoes 
Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure ! 
Ah ! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people ! 
Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, 
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty ! 
Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, 
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the May Flower, 
Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. 

Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without slumber, 
Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. 
He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council. 
Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur. 
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swearing. 
Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence ; 
Then he had turned away, and said : " I will not awake him ; 
Let him sleep on, it is best ; for what is the use of more talking ! " 
Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet. 
Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning, — 
Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in Flanders, — 
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. 
But with the dawn he arose ; in the twilight Alden beheld him 
Put on his corslet of steel, and all the rest of his armor, 
Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, 
Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. 
Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him, 
Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon ; 
All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emotions ; 
But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him, — 
Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. 
So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not. 
Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not ! 
Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying. 
Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Ricliard and Gilbert, 



THE SAILING OF THE MAY FLOWER. ITJ 

Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, 
And, with the others, in haste went hunying down to the sea-shore, 
Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a door-step 
Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a nation ! 

There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient 
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward. 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him, 
Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels 
Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together . 
Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. 
Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale, 
One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, 
Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. 
He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish. 
Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas. 
Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue him. 



But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla 

Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. 

Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention. 

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, 

That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose. 

As from the verge of a crag, where one step mure is destruction. 

Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instincts ! 

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments. 

Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine ! 

" Here I remain ! " he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, 

Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the madness, 

Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. 

" Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me. 

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. 

There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, 

Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. 

Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether ! 

Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me ; I heed not 

Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil ! 

There is no hind so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome. 



378 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



As is the air slie breatlies, and tlie soil that is pressed by her footsteps. 
Here for her salce will I stay, and like an invisible presence 
Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness ; 
Yes ! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing, 
So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving ! " 

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, 
Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, 
Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around him 
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. 
Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, 
Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, 
Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry. 
Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, 
Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel ! 
Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. 
O strong hearts and true ! not one went back in the May Flower ! 
No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing ! 

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. 
Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, 
Blowing steady and strong ; and the May Flower sailed from the harbor, 
Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward 
Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, 
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, 
Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. 

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, 
Much endeared to them all, as something living and human ; 
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, 
Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 

Said, " Let us pray ! " and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage, 
Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them 
Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death, and their kindred 
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered. 
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean 
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard ; 
Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping. 
Lo ! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, 
Watching them from the hill ; but while they spake with each other, 
Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, " Look ! " he had vanished. 
So they returned to their homes ; but Alden lingered a little, 
Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows 
Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine, 
Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters. 

VL 

PRISCILLA. 



Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 
Thinkhig of many things, and most of all of Priscilla : 



PRISCILLA. 



379 



And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone, 

Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, 

Lo ! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. 

" Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me ? " said she. 
" Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading 
Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward. 
Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum ? 
Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying 
What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it ; 
For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, 
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble 



\ 




Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret. 

Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. 

Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, 

Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, 

Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, 

As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, 

Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. 

Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. 

You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, 

Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken ! " 

Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles Standisii 

" I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry. 

Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping." 

" No ! " interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive : 



3^0 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



" No ; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. 

It was wrong, I acknowledge ; for it is the fate of a woman 

Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, 

Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. 

Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women 

Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers 

Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful, 

Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs." 

Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women : 

" Heaven forbid it, Priscilla ; and truly they seem to me always 

More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, 

More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, 

Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden ! " 

" Ah, by these words, I can see," again interrupted the maiden, 

" How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. 

When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, 

Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness. 

Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in earnest, 

Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering phrases. 

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you ; 

For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, 

Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 

Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly 

If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, 

If you make use of those common and complimentary phrases 

Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, 

But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting." 

Mute and amazed was Alden ; and listened and looked at Priscilla, 
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. 
He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another. 
Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. 
So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined 
What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and speechless. 
" Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what we think, and in all thmgs 
Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friendship. 
It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it : 
I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. 
So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you 
Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles Standish. 
For I must tell you the truth : much more to me is your friendship 
Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think him." 
Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, 
Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so sorely, 
Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of feeling : 
" Yes, we must ever be friends ; and of all who offer you friendship 
Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest ! " 

Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the May Flower, 
Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the horizon, 
Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feelmg, 
That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. 
But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the sunshine, 



THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH 381 



Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly : 

" Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, 

Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, 

You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between you, 

When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found me." 

Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the story, — 

Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. 

Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest. 

" He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment ! " 

But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how he had suffered, — 

How he had even determined to sail that day in the May Flower, 

And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threatened, — 

All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, 

" Truly I thank you for this : how good you have been to me always ! " 

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys. 
Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, 
Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition ; 
Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing. 
Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, 
Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings. 

VH. 

THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily northward, 

Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea-shore, 

All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger 

Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder 

Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. 

Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort ; 

He who was used to success, and to easy victories always. 

Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn by a maiden. 

Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had trusted ! 

Ah ! 't was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in his armor ! 

" I alone am to blame," he muttered, " for mine was the folly. 
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness, 
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens ? 
' T was but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish like so many others ! 
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless ; 
Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and hencefor\va:\i 
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers ! " 
Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, 
While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, 
Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. 

After a three days' march he came to an Indian encampment 
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest ; ^ 
Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, horrid with war-paint, 
Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together ; 
Who. when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men. 
Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, 



382 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDJSII. 



Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, 

Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present ; 

Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. 

Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers gigantic in stature, 

Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan ; 

One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. 

Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wampum, 

Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. 

Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. 

" Welcome, English ! " they said, — these words they had learned from the traders 

Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. 

Then in their native tongue they began to parley with Standish, 

Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, 




Begging for blankets and knivc>i, but mostly for muskets and powder, 

Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his cellars, 

Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man ! 

But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, 

Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster. 

Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other. 

And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain : 

" Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, 

Angry is he in his heart ; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat 

Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman. 

But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning. 

Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him. 

Shouting, * Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat .'' ' " 

Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left hariJ, 

Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the handle, 

Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning : 

" I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle ; 

By and by they shall marry ; and there will be plenty of children ! " 



THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 383 



Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish : 
While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, 
Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, 
" By and by it shall see ; it shall eat ; ah, ha ! but shall speak not ! 
This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us ! 
He is a little man ; let him go and work with the women ! " 

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians 
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, 
Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings. 
Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush. 
But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly ; 
So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. 
But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, 
All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, 
Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. 
Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its scabbard, 
Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage 
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. 
Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-whoop. 
And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, 
Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of fcatheiy arrows. 
Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, 
Out of the lightning thunder ; and death unseen ran before it. 
Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, 
Hotly pursued and beset ; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, 
Fled not ; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet 
Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the greensward, 
Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. 

There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above them, 
Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. 
Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth : 
" Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his strength, and his stature, — 
Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man ; but I see now 
Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you ! " 

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles Standish. 
When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, 
And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat 
Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church and a fortress. 
All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, and took courage. 
Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of terror, 
Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish ; 
Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles. 
He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor. 

vnr. 

THE SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Month after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the merchants 
Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. 



384 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



All in the village was peace ; the men were intent on their labors, 
Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with merestead. 
Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, 
Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. 
All in the village was peace ; but at times the rumor of warfare 
Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. 
Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the land with his forces, 
Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, 
Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. 
Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition 




Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, 
Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a river. 
Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. 



Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation. 
Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the forest. 
Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes ; 
Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper, 
Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. 
There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard : 
Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. 



THE SriXA-I.XG- WHEEL. 385 

Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoyance, 
Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden's allotment 
In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time 
Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. 

Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer 
Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla, 
Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, 
Pleasures disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. 
Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling ; 
Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil of his garden ; 
Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday 
Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs, — 
How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always. 
How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, 
How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, 
How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff. 
How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household. 
Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her weaving ! 

So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, 
Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers. 
As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune, 
After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. 
" Truly, Priscilla," he said, " when I see you spinning and spinning, 
Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others. 
Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment ; 
You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner." 
Here the light hand on the wheel grew swifter and swifter ; the spindle 
Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers ; 
While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued : 
" You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia ; 
She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, 
Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and meadow and mountain, 
Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. 
She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. 
So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer 
Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. 
Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their childhood. 
Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner ! " 
Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden. 
Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the sweetest. 
Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning. 
Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden : 
" Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern for housewives. 
Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. 
Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting ; 
Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the manners, 
Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden ! " 
Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted. 
He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him. 
She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers, 
Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, 
25 



m 



386 



T//E COURTSHIP OF MILES STAiVDISH. 



Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled expertly 

Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how could she help it ? — 

Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. 

Lo ! in the midst of this scene, a bx-eathless messenger entered, 
Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. 
Yes ; Miles Standish was dead ! — an Indian had brought them the tidings 
Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle. 
Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces ; 
All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered ! 
Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. 
Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward 




Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror ; 
But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow 
Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered 
Once and forever the bonds that held him bound as a captive. 
Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom. 
Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, 
Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, 
Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, and exclaiming : 
" Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder ! " 



Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, 
Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing 
Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, 



THE WEDDING-DAY. 387 



Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest ; 
So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, 
Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, 
Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, 
Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. 

IX. 

THE WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet. 
Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, 
Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead. 
Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. 
Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together ; the Elder and Magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel 
One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven. 
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal. 
Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate's presence. 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. 
Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection, 
Speaking of life and of death, and imploring Divine benedictions. 

Lo ! vi'hen the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, 
Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure ! 
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition ? 
Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder 'i 
Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illusion ? 
Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal ? 
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed ; 
Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression 
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them, 
As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud 
Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. 
Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent. 
As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. 
But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction, 
Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement 
Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth ! 
Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, " Forgive me ! 
I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I cherished the feeling ; 
I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God ! it is ended. 
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, 
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. 
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden." 
Thereupon answered the bridegroom ; " Let all be forgotten between us, — 
All save llie dear, old friendship, and that shall grow older and dearer ! " 



388 



THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 



Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, 
Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, 
Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, 
Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. 
Then he said with a smile : " I should have remembered the adage, — 
If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, 
No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas ! " 



Great was the people's amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, 
Thus to behold once more the sun-burnt face of their Captain, 
Whom they had mourned as dead ; and they gathered and crowded about him. 
Eager to see him, and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, 
Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, 
Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewildered, 




He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, 

Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at the dooi-way» 
Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. 
Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, 
Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation : 
There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea-shore. 
There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows ; 
But to their eyes transiigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, 
Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the ocean. 

Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of departure. 
Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delaying, 
Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncompleted. 



THE WEDDING-DAY. 



389 



Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, 

Aldcn the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, 

Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master. 

Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils. 

Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. 

She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday ; 

Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. 

Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, 

Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband, 

Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. 

" Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, " but the distaff; 

Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha ! " 

Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, 
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. 
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest. 
Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love through its bosom 
Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the azure abysses. 
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors, 
Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them suspended, 
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-tree, 
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eschol. 
Like a pictm^e it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, 
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always. 
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. 
So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. 







'' ' -.^:^*^'>^#3^t^;S^^s^-:: 



BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE. 


. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 


Facendo in aer di sfe lunga riga. 




Dante. 


PROMETHEUS, 


But the glories so transcendent 




That around their memories cluster, 


OR THE poet's FORETHOUGHT. 


And, on all their steps attendant. 




Make their darkened lives resplen- 


Of Prometheus, how undaunted 


dent 


On Olympus' shining bastions 


With such gleams of inward lustre ! 


His audacious foot he planted, 




Myths are told and songs are chanted, 


All the melodies mysterious. 


Full of promptings and suggestions. 


Through the dreaiy darkness chanted ; 




Thoughts in attitudes imperious. 


Beautiful is the tradition 


Voices soft, and deep, and serious, 


Of that flight through heavenly portals. 


Words that whispered, songs that 


The old classic superstition 


haunted ! 


Of the theft and the transmission 




Of the fire of the Immortals ! 


All the soul in rapt suspension, 




All the quivering, palpitating 


First the deed of noble daring. 


Chords of life in utmost tension. 


Born of heavenward aspiration, 


With the fervor of invention. 


Then the fire with mortals sharing. 


With the rapture of creating ! 


Then the vulture, — the despairing 




Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 


Ah, Prometheus ! heaven-scaling ! 




In such hours of exultation 


All is but a symbol painted 


Even the faintest heart, unquailing. 


Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer ; 


Might behold the vulture sailing 


Only those are crowned and sainted 


Round the cloudy crags Caucasian I 


Who with grief have been acquainted. 




Making nations nobler, freer. 


Though to all there is not given 




Strength for such sublime endeavor. 


In their feverish exultations, 


Thus to scale the walls of heaven, 


In their triumph and their yearning, 


And to leaven with fieiy leaven 


In their passionate pulsations, 


All the hearts of men forever ; 


In their words among the nations, 




The Promethean fire is burning. 


Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted 




Honor and believe the presage, 


Shall it, then, be unavailing, 


Hold aloft their torches lighted, 


All this toil for human culture } 


Gleaming through the realms benighted. 


Through the cloud-rack, dark and trail- 


As they onward bear the message ! 


ing 
Must they see above them sailing 




O'er life's barren crags the vulture ? 


THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUS- 




TINE. 


Such a fate as this was Dante's, 




By defeat and exile maddened ; 


Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said. 


Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 


That of our vices we can frame 


Nature's priests and Corybantes, 


A ladder, if we will but tread 


By affliction touched and saddened. 


Beneath our feet each deed of shame J 



THE PHANTOM SHIP. 39 1 


All common things, each day's events, 


Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 


That with the hour begin and end. 


As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 


Our pleasures and our discontents. 


If, rising on its wrecks, at last 


Are rounds by which we may ascend. 


To something nobler we attain. 


The low desire, the base design, 




That makes another's virtues less ; 


THE PHANTOM SHIP. 


The revel of the ruddy wine. 




And all occasions of excess ; 


In leather's Magnalia Christ), 




Of the old colonial time. 


The longing for ignoble things ; 


May be found in prose the legend 


The strife for triumph more than truth ; 


That is here set down in rhyme. 


The hardening of the heart, that brings 




Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 


A ship sailed from New Haven, 




And the keen and frosty airs, 


All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds. 


That filled her sails at parting. 


That have their root in thoughts of 
ill • 


Were heavy with good men's prayers. 


Whatever hinders or impedes 


" Lord ! if it be thy pleasure " — 


The action of the nobler will ; — 


Thus prayed the old divine — 




" To bury our friends in the ocean, 


All these must first be trampled down 


Take them, for they are thine ! " 


Beneath our feet, if we would gain 




In the bright fields of fair renown 


But Master Lamberton muttered. 


The right of eminent domain. 


And under his breath said he, 




"This ship is so crank and walty 


We have not wings, we cannot soar ; 


I fear our grave she w'ill be ! " 


But we have feet to scale and climb 




By slow degrees, by more and more, 


And the ships that came from Eng- 


The cloudy summits of our time. 


land, 




When the winter months were gone, 


The mighty pyramids of stone 


Brought no tidings of this vessel 


That wedge-like cleave the desert 


Nor of Master Lamberton. 


airs. 
When nearer seen, and better known, 


This put the people to praying 


Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 


That the Lord would let them hear 




What in his greater wisdom 


The distant mountains, that uprear 


He had done with friends so dear. 


Their solid bastions to the skies, 




Are crossed by pathways, that appear 


And at last their prayers were an- 


As we to higher levels rise. 


swered : — 




It was in the month of June, 


The heights by great men reached and 


An hour before the sunset 


kept 


Of a windy afternoon. 


Were not attained by sudden flight. 




But they, while their companions slept. 


When, steadily steering landward, 


Were toiling upward in the night. 


A ship was seen below, 




And they knew it was Lamberton, Mas- 


Standing on what too long we bore 


ter, 


With shoulders bent and downcast 


Who sailed so long ago. 


eyes. 




We may discern — unseen before — 


On she came, with a cloud of canvas, 


A path to higher destinies. 


Right against the wind that blew. 



392 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 




Until the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 

Then fell her straining topmasts, 
Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 

And her sails were loosened and lifted, 
And blown away like clouds. 

And the masts, with all their rigging, 

Fell slowly, one by one, 
And the hulk dilated and vanished, 

As a sea-mist in the sun ! 

And the people who saw this marvel 

Each said unto his friend. 
That this was the mould of their vessel, 

And thus her tragic end. 

And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to God in prayer, 

That, to quiet their troubled spirits. 
He had sent this Ship of Air. 



HAUNTED HOUSES. 

A LL houses wherein men have lived and 
died 
Are haunted houses. Through the 
open doors 



The harmless phantoms on their errands 
glide, 
With feet that make no sound upon 
the floors. 

We meet them at the doorway, on the 
stair. 

Along the passages they come and go, 
Impalpable impressions on the air, 

A sense of something moving to and fro. 

There are more guests at table, than the 
hosts 

Invited ; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, 

As silent as the pictures on the wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I 
hear ; 

He but perceives what is ; while unto me 
All that has been is visible and clear. 

We have no title-deeds to house or 
lands ; 
Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty 
hands. 
And hold in mortmain still tlieir old 
estates. 



THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 



393 



The spirit-world around this world of 


Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, 


sense 


and Dover 


Floats like an atmosphere, and every- 


Were all alert that day. 


where 


To see the French war-steamers speeding 


Wafts through these earthly mists and 


over. 


vapors dense 


When the fog cleared away. 


A vital breath of more ethereal air. 






Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions. 


Our little lives are kept in equipoise 


Their cannon, through the night, 


By opposite attractions and desires ; 


Holding their breath, had watched, in 


The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, 


grim defiance. 


And the more noble instinct that as- 


The sea-coast opposite. 


pires. 


And now they roared at drum-beat from 


These perturbations, this perpetual jar 


their stations 


Of earthly wants and aspirations high, 


On every citadel ; 


Come from the influence of an unseen star, 


Each answering each, with morning salu- 


An undiscovered planet in our sky. 


tations. 




That all was well. 


And as the moon from some dark gate 




of cloud 


And down the coast, all taking up the 


Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge 


burden, 


of light, 


Replied the distant forts, 


Across whose trembling planks our fan- 


As if to summon from his sleep the 


cies crowd 


Warden 


Into the realm of mystery and night, — 


And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 


So from the world of spirits there de- 


Him shall no sunshine from the fields of 


scends 


azure. 


A bridge of light, connecting it with 


No drum-beat from the wall, 


this, 


No morning gun from the black fort's 


O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways 


embrasure. 


and bends, 


Awaken with its call ! 


Wander our thoughts above the dark 




abyss. 


No more, surveying with an eye impar- 
tial 
The long line of the coast. 




THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE 


Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field 


PORTS. 


Marshal 




Be seen upon his post ! 


A MIST was driving down the British 




Channel, 


For in the night, unseen, a single war- 


The day was just begun. 


rior. 


And through the window-panes, on floor 


In sombre harness mailed. 


and panel. 


Dreaded of man, and surnamed the De- 


Streamed the red autumn sun. 


stroyer, 




The rampart wall had scaled. 


It glanced on flowing flag and rippling 




pennon. 


He passed into the chamber of the sleeper. 


And the white sails of ships ; 


The dark and silent room. 


And, from the frowning rampart, the 


And as he entered, darker grew, and 


black cannon 


deeper. 


Hailed it with feverish lips. 


The silence and the gloom. 



394 BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE. 


He did not pause to parley or dissemble, 


Up and down the dreary camp. 


But smote the Warden hoar ; 


In great boots of Spanish leather. 


Ah ! what a blow ! that made all Eng- 


Striding with a measured tramp. 


land tremble 


These Hidalgos, dull and damp. 


And groan from shore to shore. 


Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the 




weather. 


Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon 




waited. 


Thus as to and fro they went, 


The sun rose bright o'erhead ; 


Over upland and through hollow, 


Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated 


Giving their impatience vent. 


That a great man was dead. 


Perched upon the Emperor's tent. 




In her nest, they spied a swallow. 


IN THE CHURCHYARD AT 


Yes, it was a swallow's nest. 


CAMBRIDGE. 


Built of clay and hair of horses, 




Mane, or tail, or dragoon's crest, 


In the village churchyard she lies, 


Found on hedge-rows east and west. 


Dust is in her beautiful eyes. 


After skirmish of the forces. 


No more she breathes, nor feels, nor 




stirs ; 


Then an old Hidalgo said, 


At her feet and at her head 


As he twirled his gray mustachio, 


Lies a slave to attend the dead, 


" Sure this swallow overhead 


But their dust is white as hers. 


Thinks the Emperor's tent a shed, 




And the Emperor but a Macho ! " 


Was she a lady of high degree. 




So much in love with the vanity 


Hearing his imperial name 


And foolish pomp of this world of ours ? 


Coupled with those words of malice. 


Or was it Christian charity. 


Half in anger, half in shame. 


And lowliness and humility, 


Forth the great campaigner came 


The richest and rarest of all dowers ? 


Slowly from his canvas palace. 


Who shall tell us ? No one speaks ; 


" Let no hand the bird molest," 


No color shoots into those cheeks, 


Said he solemnly, " nor hurt her ! " 


Either of anger or of pride. 


Adding then, by way of jest, 


At the rude question \\e have asked ; 


" Golondrina is my guest. 


Nor will the mysteiy be unmasked 


'T is the wife of some deserter ! " 


By those who are sleeping at her side. 






Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft. 


Hereafter ? — And do you think to look 


Through the camp was spread the 


On the terrible pages of that Book 


rumor, 


To find her failings, faults, and errors .'' 


And the soldiers, as they quafied 


Ah, you will then have other cares, 


Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 


In your own shortcommgs and despairs, 


At the Emperor's pleasant humor. 


In your own secret sins and terrors ! 






So unharmed and unafraid 




Sat the swallow still and brooded. 


THE EMPEROR'S BIRD'S-NEST. 


Till the constant cannonade 




Through the walls a breach had made 


Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 


And the siege was thus concluded. 


With his swarthy, grave commanders, 




I forget in what campaign. 


Then the army, elsewhere bent. 


Long besieged, in mud and rain, 


Struck its tents as if disbanding. 


Some old frontier town of Flanders. 


Only not the Emperor's tent. 



THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. 395 


For he ordered, ere he went, 


Closed are the portals of their Syna- 


Very curtly, " Leave it standing ! " 


gogue, 




No Psalms of David now the silence 


So it stood there all alone, 


break, 


Loosely flapping, torn and tattered, 


No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue 


Till the brood was fledged and flown. 


In the grand dialect the Piophets 


Singing o'er those walls of stone 


spake. 


Which the cannon-shot had shattered. 






Gone are the living, but the dead re- 




main. 


THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT 


And not neglected ; for a hand unseen. 


NEWPORT. 


Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain. 




Still keeps their graves and their re- 


How strange it seems ! These Hebrews 


membrance green. 


in their graves, 




Close by the street of this fair seaport 


How came they here .' What burst of 


town. 


Christian hate. 


Silent beside the never-silent waves, 


What persecution, merciless and blind. 


At rest in all this moving up and 


Drove o'er the sea — that desert deso- 


down ! 


late — 




These Ishmaels and Hagars of man- 


The trees are white with dust, that o'er 


kind t 


their sleep 




Wave their broad curtains in the 


They lived in narrow streets and lanes 


south-wind's breath. 


obscure, 


While underneath these leafy tents they 


Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and 


keep 


mire ; 


The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. 


Taught in the school of patience to en- 




dure 


And these sepulchral stones, so old and 


The life of anguish and the death of 


brown, 


fire. 


That pave with level flags their burial- 




place. 


All their lives long, with the unleavened 


Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown 


bread 


down 


And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, 


And broken by Moses at the moun- 


The wasting famine of the heart they 


tain's base. 


fed, 




And slaked its thirst with marah of 


The very names recorded here are 


their tears. 


strange, 




Of foreign accent, and of difierent 


Anathema maranatha ! was the cry 


climes ; 


That rang from town to town, from 


Alvares and Rivera interchange 


street to street ; 


With Abraham and Jacob of old 


At eveiy gate the accursed Mordecai 


times. 


Was mocked and jeered, and spurned 




by Christian feet. 


" Blessed be God ! for he created 




Death ! " 


Pride and humiliation hand in hand 


The mourners said, " and Death is rest 


Walked with them through the world 


and peace ; " 


where'er they went ; 


Then added, in the certainty of faith. 


Trampled and beaten were they as the 


" And giveth Life that nevermore shall 


sand. 


cease." 


And yet unshaken as the continent. 



396 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



For in the background figures vague and 
vast 
Of patriarchs and of prophets rose 
sublime, 
And all the great traditions of the 
Past 
They saw reflected in the coming time. 

And thus forever with reverted look 
The mystic volume of the world they 
read, 



Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew 
book, 
Till life became a Legend of the Dead. 

But ah ! what once has been shall be no 
more ! 
The groaning earth in travail and in 
pain 
Brings forth its races, but does not re- 
store, 
And the dead nations never rise again. 




THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of 
Death, 
Passed o'er our village as the morning 
broke ; 
The dawn was on their faces, and be- 
neath. 
The sombre houses hearsed with 
plumes of smoke. 

Their attitude and aspect were the same, 
Alike their features and their robes of 
white, 
But one was crowned with amaranth, as 
with flame, 
And one with asphodels, like flakes of 
light. 



I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt 
oppressed, 
" Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou 
betray 
The place where thy beloved are at 
rest ! " 

And he who wore the crown of asphodels. 

Descending, at my door began to 

knock, 

And my soul sank within me, as in wells 

The waters sink before an earthquake's 

shock. 

I recognized the nameless agony, 

The terror and the tremor and the 
pain, 



VICTOR GALBKAITH. 



397 



That oft before had filled or haunted 
me, 
And now returned with threefold 
strength again. 

The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
And listened, for I thought I heard 
God's voice ; 
And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent was 
best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to re- 
joice. 

Then with a smile, that filled the house 
with light, 
" My errand is not Death, but Life," 
he said ; 
And ere I answered, passing out of 
sight, 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 

'T was at thy door, O friend ! and not at 
mine. 
The angel with the amaranthine wreath. 
Pausing, descended, and with voice di- 
vine. 
Whispered a word that had a sound 
like Death. 

Then fell upon the house a sudden 
gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair and 
thin ; 
And softly, from that hushed and dark- 
ened room. 
Two angels issued, where but one went 



All is of God ! If he but wave his hand. 
The mists collect, the rain falls thick 
and loud. 
Till, with a smile of light on sea and 
land, 
I.o ! he looks back from the departing 
cloud. 

Angels of Life and Death alike are his ; 
Without his leave they pass no thresh- 
old o'er ; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, believing 
this. 
Against his messengers to shut the 
door "> 



VICTOR GALBRAITH. 

Under the walls of Monterey 

At daybreak the bugles began to play, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
In the mist of the morning damp and 

gray, 
These were the words they seemed to 
say : 
" Come forth to thy death, 
Victor Galbraith ! " 

Forth he came, with a martial tread ; 
Firm was his step, erect his head ; 

Victor Galbraith, 
He, who so well the bugle played, 
Could not mistake the words it said : 

" Come forth to thy death, 

Victor Galbraith ! " 

He looked at the earth, he looked at the 

sky, 
He looked at the files of musketry, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
And he said, with a steady voice and eye, 
" Take good aim ; I am ready to die ! " 

Thus challenges death 

Victor Galbraith. 

Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and 

red, 
Six leaden balls on their errand sped ; 

Victor Galbraith 
Falls to the ground, but he is not dead ; 
His name was not stamped on those 
balls of lead, 
And they only scath 
Victor Galbraith. 

Three balls are in his breast and brain. 
But he rises out of the dust again, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
The water he drinks has a bloody stain ; 
" O kill me, and put me out of my pain ! " 

In his agony prayeth 

Victor Galbraith. 

Forth dart once more those tongues of 

flame. 
And the bugler has died a death of shame, 

Victor Galbraith ! 
His soul has gone back to wlience it 
came, 



398 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



And no one answers to the name, 
When the Sergeant saith, 
" Victor Galbraith ! " 

Under the walls of Monterey 

By night a bugle is heard to play, 



Victor Galbraith ! 
Through the mist of the valley damp and 

gray 
The sentinels hear the sound, and say, 

" That is the wraith 

Of Victor Galbraith ! " 




OLIVER BASSELIN. 

In the Valley of the Vire 

Still is seen an ancient mill, 

With its gables quaint and queer. 

And beneath the window-sill, 

On the stone. 

These words alone : 

" Oliver Basselin lived here." 

Far above it, on the steep. 

Ruined stands the old Chateau 

Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 
Its vacant eyes 



Stare at the skies. 
Stare at the valley green and deep. 

Once a convent, old and brown. 

Looked, but ah ! it looks no more, 
From the neighboring hillside down 
On the rushing and the roar 
Of the sti^eam 
Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 

In that darksome mill of stone, 
To the water's dash and din. 

Careless, humble, and unknown. 
Sang the poet Basselin 



A/y LOST 


YOUTH. 399 


Songs that fill 


Like the river, swift and clear. 


That ancient mill 


Flows his song through many a heart ; 


With a splendor of its own. 


Haunting still 




That ancient mill. 


Never feeling of unrest 


In the Valley of the Vire. 


Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; 




Only made to be his nest, 




All the lovely valley seemed ; 


DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 


No desire 




Of soaring higher 


In broad daylight, and at noon. 


Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 


Yesterday I saw the moon 




Sailing high, but faint and white, 


True, his songs were not divine ; 


As a schoolboy's paper kite. 


Were not songs of that high art. 




Which, as winds do in the pine, 


In broad daylight, yesterday, 


Find an answer in each heart ; 


I read a Poet's mystic lay ; 


But the mirth 


And it seemed to me at most 


Of this green earth 


As a phantom, or a ghost. 


Laughed and revelled in his line. 






But at length the feverish day 


From the alehouse and the inn, 


Like a passion died away. 


Opening on the narrow street, 


And the night, serene and still, 


Came the loud, convivial din. 


Fell on village, vale, and hill. 


Singing and applause of feet, 




The laugliing lays 


Then the moon, in all her pride, 


That in those days 


Like a spirit glorified. 


Sang the poet Basselin. 


Filled and overflowed the night 




With revelations of her light. 


In the castle, cased in steel, 




Knights, who fought at Agincourt, 


And the Poet's song again 


Watched and waited, spur on heel ; 


Passed like music through my brain ; 


But the poet sang for sport 


Night interpreted to me 


Songs that rang 


All its grace and mysteiy. 


Another clang. 




Songs that lowlier hearts could feel. 






MY LOST YOUTH. 


In the convent, clad in gray. 




Sat the monks in lonely cells, 


Often I think of the beautiful town 


Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, 


That is seated by the sea ; 


And the poet heard their bells ; 


Often in thought go up and down 


But his rhymes 


The pleasant streets of that dear old 


Found other chimes. 


town. 


Nearer to the earth than they. 


And my youth comes back to me. 




And a verse of a Lapland song 


Gone are all the barons bold. 


Is haunting my memory still : 


Gone are all the knights and squires, 


" A boy's will is the wind's will. 


Gone the abbot stern and cold. 


And the thoughts of youth are long, long 


And the brotherhood of friars ; 


thoughts." 


Not a name 


' 


Remains to fame, 


I can see the shadowy lines of its trees. 


From those mouldering days of old ! 


And catch, in sudden gleams, 




The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 


But the poet's memory here 


And islands that were tlic Hesperidcs 


Of the landscape makes a jiart ; 


Of all my boyish dreams. 



400 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the 
slips, 
And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the 
ships, 
And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward 

song 
Is singing and saying still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore. 

And the fort upon the hill ; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the sea-fight far away. 
How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil 
bay. 
Where they in battle died. 
And the sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I can see the breezy dome of groves, 
The shadows of Deering's Woods ; 
And the friendships old and the early 

loves 
Come back with a sabbath sound, as of 
doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 
And the verse of that sweet old 

song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 



" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that 
dart 
Across the school-boy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not 
speak ; 
There are dreams that cannot die ; 
There are thoughts that make the strong 

heart weak. 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town ; 
But the native air is pure and sweet. 
And the trees that o'ershadow each well- 
known street, 
As they balance up and down. 
Are singing the beautiful song. 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and 
fair, 
And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there. 
And among the dreams of the days that 
were, 
I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 
The groves are repeating it still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long 
thoughts." 



THE ROPE WALK. 



401 



THE ROPEWALK. 


Laughing, as their gentle hands 




Closely clasp the twisted strands, 


In that building, long and low, 


At their shadow on the grass. 


With its windows all a-row, 




Like the port-holes of a hulk, 


Then a booth of mountebanks, 


Human spiders spin and spin, 


With its smell of tan and planks, 


Backward down their threads so thin 


And a girl poised high in air 


Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 


On a cord, in s[)angled dress, 










At the end, an open door ; 
Squares of sunshine on the floor 
Light the long and dusky lane 
And the whirring of a wheel, 



Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 


And a woman w'ith bare arms 


All its spokes are in my brain. 


Drawing water from a well ; 




As the bucket mounts apace, 


As the spinners to the end 


With it mounts her own fair face, 


Downward go and reascend. 


As at some magician's spell. 


Gleam the long threads in the sun ; 




While within this brain of mine 


Then an old man in a tower. 


Cobwebs brighter and more fine 


Ringing loud the noontide hour. 


By the busy wheel are spun. 


While the rope coils round and 




round 


Two fair maidens in a swing. 


Like a serpent at his feet. 


Like white doves upon the wing, 


And again, in swift retreat, 


First before my vision pass ; 
26 


Nearly lifts him from the ground. 



With a faded loveliness. 
And a weary look of care. 

Then a homestead among farms, 



y 



402 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 




Then within a prison-yard, 
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 

Laughter and indecent mirth ; 
Ah ! it is the gallows-tree ! 
Breath of Christian charity. 

Blow, and sweep it from the earth ! 

Then a school-boy, with his Wte 
Gleaming .in a sky of light, 

And an eager, upward look ; 
Steeds pursued through lane and field ; 
Fowlers with their snares concealed ; 

And an angler by a brook. 

Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 
Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas. 

Anchors dragged through faithless 
sand ; 
Sea-fog drifting overhead. 
And, with lessening line and lead, 

Sailors feeling for the land. 

All these scenes do I behold, 
These, and many left untold, 

In that building long and low ; 
While the wheel goes round and 

round. 
With a drowsy, dreamy sound. 

And the soinners backward go. 



THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. 

Leafless are the trees ; their purple 

branches 
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of 

coral, 
Rising silent 
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. 

From the hundred chimneys of the vil- 
lage, 
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story, 

Smoky columns 
Tower aloft into the air of amber. 

At the window winks the flickering fire- 
light ; 

Here and there the lamps of evening 
glimmer. 
Social watch-fires 

Answering one another through the 
darkness. 

On the hearth the lighted logs are glONv - 

ing, 
And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree 

For its freedom 
Groans and sighs the air imprisoned ii> 
them. 



CATAWBA WINE. 



403 



By the fireside there are old men seated, 


In his farthest wanderings still he sees 


Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 


it; 


Asking sadly 


Hears the talking flame, the answering 


Of the Past what it can ne'er restore 


night-wind. 


them. 


As he heard them 




When he sat with those who were, but 


By the fireside there are youthful dream- 


are not. 


Building castles fair, with stately stair- 


Happy he whom neither wealth nor 


ways, 


fashion, 


Asking blindly 


Nor the march of the encroaching 


Of the Future what it cannot give them. 


city. 




By the fireside tragedies are acted 

In whose scenes appear two actors only, 

Wife and husband, 
And above them God the sole spectator. 

By the fireside there are peace and com- 
fort, 

Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful 
faces. 
Waiting, watching 

For a well-known footstep in the passage. 

Each man's chimney is his Golden Mile- 
stone ; 

Is the central point, from which he meas- 
ures 
Every distance 

Through the gateways of the world 
around him. 



Drives an exile 
From the hearth of his ancestral home- 
stead. 

We may build more splendid habitations, 
Fill our rooms with paintings and with 
sculptures, 
But we cannot 
Buy with gold the old associations ! 



CATAWBA WINE. 

This song of mine 
Is a Song of the Vine, 

To be sung by the glowing embers 
Of wayside inns, 
When the rain begins 

To darken the drear Xovemboj-K. 



404 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



It is not a song 

Of the Scuppernong, 
From warm Carolinian valleys, 

Nor the Isabel 

And the Muscaclel 
That bask in our garden alleys. 

Nor the red Mustang, 

Whose clusters hang 
O'er the waves of the Colorado, 

And the fie 17 flood 

Of whose purple blood 
Has a dash of Spanish bravado. 

For richest and best 

Is the wine of the West, 
That grows by the Beautiful River ; 

Whose sweet perfume 

Fills all the room 
With a benison on the giver. 

And as hollow trees 

Are the haunts of bees, 
Forever going and coming ; 

So this crystal hive 

Is all alive 
With a swarming and buzzing and hum- 
ming. 

Vei-y good in its way 

Is the Verzenay, 
Or the Sillery soft and creamy ; 

But Catawba wine 

Has a taste more divine. 
More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. 

There grows no vine 

By the haunted Rhine, 
By Danube or Guadalquivir, 

Nor on island or cape. 

That bears such a grape 
As grows by the Beautiful River. 

Drugged is their juice 

For foreign use, 
When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, 

To rack our brains 

With the fever pains, 
That have driven the Old World fran- 
tic. 

To the sewers and sinks 
With all such drinks, 



And after them tumble the mixer ; 

For a poison malign 

Is such Borgia wine. 
Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. 

While pure as a spring 

Is the wine I sing. 
And to praise it, one needs but name 
it ; 

For Catawba wine 

Has need of no sign. 
No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 

And this Song of the Vine, 

This greeting of mine. 
The winds and the birds shall de- 
liver 

To the Queen of the West, 

In her garlands dressed. 
On the banks of the Beautiful River. 



SANTA FILOMENA. 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 

Our hearts, in glad surprise. 

To higher levels rise. 

The tidal wave of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls, 

And lifts us unawares 

Out of all meaner cares. 

Honor to those whose words or deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs. 
And by their overflow 
Raise us from what is low ! 

Thus thought I, as by night I read 

Of the great army of the dead, 
The trenches cold and damp. 
The starved and frozen camp, — 

The wounded from the battle-plain. 
In dreary hospitals of pain, 

The cheerless corridors. 

The cold and stony floors. 

Lo ! in that house of misery 

A lady with a lamp I see 

Pass through the glimmering gloom. 
And flit from room to room. 



THE DISCOVERER OF THE NORTH CAPE. 



405 




And slow, as in a dream of bliss, 
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
Her shadow, as it falls 
Upon the darkening walls. 

As if a door in heaven should be 
Opened and then closed suddenly, 
The vision came and went. 
The light shone and was spent. 

On England's annals, through the lout. 

Hereafter of her speech and song. 
That light its rays shall cast 
From portals of the past. 

A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble type of good, 

Heroic womanhood. 

Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, 

The symbols that of yore 

Saint Filomena bore. 



THE DISCOVERER OF 
NORTH CAPE. 



THE 



A LEAF TROM KING ALFRED'S ORO- 

Sins. 

()iiii:re, the old sea-captain. 

Who dwelt in Helgoland, 
To King Alfred, the Lover of Truth, 
P>rought a snow-white walrus-tooth, 

Which he held in his brown right 
hand. 

His figure was tall and stately, 
Like a boy's his eye appeared ; 

His hair was yellow as hay. 

But threads of a silvery gray 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 

Hearty and hale was Othere, 
His cheek had the color of oak ; 

With a kind of laugh in his speech, 

Like the sea-tide on a beach, 
As unto the King he spoke. 



4o6 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 
Had a book upon his knees, 

And wrote down the wondrous tale 

Of him who was first to sail 
Into the Arctic seas. 

" So far I live to the northward, 

No man lives north of me ; 
To the east are wild mountain-chains. 
And beyond them meres and plains ; 
To the westward all is sea. 

" So far I live to the northward, 
From the harbor of Skeringes-hale, 



" And then uprose before me, 

Upon the water's edge, 
The huge and haggard shape 
Of that unknown North Cape, 

Whose form is like a wedge. 

" The sea was rough and stormy, 

The tempest howled and wailed, 
And the sea-fog, like a ghost. 
Haunted that dreary coast. 
But onward still I sailed. 

" Four days I steered to eastward, 
Four days without a night : 



If you only sailed by day. 


Round in a fiery ring 


With a fair wind all the way, 


Went the great sun, O King, 


More than a month would you sail. 


With red and lurid light." 


" I own six hundred reindeer. 


Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 


With sheep and swine beside ; 


Ceased writing for a while ; 


I have tribute from the Finns, 


And raised his eyes from his book,. 


Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 


With a strange and puzzled look, 


And ropes of walrus-hide. 


And an incredulous smile. 


" I ploughed the land with horses, 


But Othere, the old sea-captain, 


But my heart was ill at ease ; 


He neither paused nor stirred. 


For the old seafaring men 


Till the King listened and then 


Came to me now and then. 


Once more took up his pen. 


With their sagas of the seas ; — 


And wrote down every word. 


" Of Iceland and of Greenland, 


" And now the land," said Othere, 


And the stormy Hebrides, 


" Bent southward suddenly, 


And the undiscovered deep ; — 


And I followed the curving shore 


I could not eat nor sleep 


And ever southward bore 


For thinking of those seas. 


Into a nameless sea. 


" To the northward stretched the desert, 


" And there we hunted the walrus,. 


How far I fain would know ; 


The narwhale, and the seal ; 


So at last I sallied forth. 


Ha ! 't was a noble game ! 


And three days sailed due north. 


And like the lightning's flame 


As far as the whale-ships go. 


Flew our harpoons of steel. 


" To the west of me was the ocean, 


" There were six of us all together, 


To the right the desolate shore, 


Norsemen of Helgoland ; 


But I did not slacken sail 


In two days and no moic 


For the walrus or the whale, 


We killed of them threescore, 


Till after three days more. 


And dragged them to the strand ! " 


" The days grew longer and longer. 


Here Alfred the Truth-Teller 


Till they became as one. 


Suddenly closed his book, 


And northward through the haze 


And lifted his blue eyes. 


I saw the sullen blaze 


With doubt and strange surmise 


Of the red midnight sun. 


Depicted in their look. 



DA YBREAK. 



407 



A.nd Othere the old sea-captain 
Stared at him wild and weird, 
Then smiled, till his shining teeth 
Gleamed white from underneath 
His tawny, quivering beard. 



And to the King of the Saxons, 

In witness of the truth, 
Raising his noble head. 
He stretched his brown hand, and said, 

" Behold this walrus-tooth ! " 




DAYBREAK. 

A WIND came up out of the sea, 
And said, " O mists, make room for 
me." 

It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail 

on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone." 

And hurried landward far away. 
Crying, " Awake ! it is the day." 

It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 



It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, 
And said, " O bird, awake and sing." 

And o'er the farms, " O chanticleer. 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 
" Bow down, and hail the coming 
morn." 

It shouted through the belfry-tower, 
" Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 



4o8 



B/A'nS OF PASSAGE. 



THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY 
AGASSIZ. 

MAY 28, 1857. 

It was fifty years ago 

In the pleasant month of May, 
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 

A child in its cradle lay. 

And Nature, the old nurse, took 
The child upon her knee, 

Saying : " Here is a story-book 
Thy Father has written for thee." 

" Come, wander with me," she said, 
" Into regions yet untrod ; 

And read what is still unread 
In the manuscript of God." 

And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 



OF 



Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 

And whenever the way seemed long, 

Or his heart began to fail, 
She would sing a more wonderful song, 

Or tell a more marvellous tale. 

So she keeps him still a child. 

And will not let him go, 
Though at times his heart beats wild 

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud ; 

Though at times he hears in his dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 

And the rush of mountain streams 
From glaciers clear and cold ; 

And the mother at home says, " Hark ! 

For his voice I listen and yearn ; 
It is growing late and dark. 

And my boy does not return ! " 




CHILDREN. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that perplexed mc 

Have vanished quite away. 

Ve open the eastern windows, 
That look towards the sun, 



Where thoughts are singing swal- 
lows 
And the brooks of morning run. 

In your hearts are the birds and the sun- 
shine, 

In your thoughts the brooklet's flow. 
But in mine is the wind of Autumn 

And the first fall of the snow. 



SANDALPHON. 



409 




Ah ! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 

We should dread the desert behind us 
Worse than the dark before. 

What the leaves are to the forest, 

With light and air for food, 
Ere their sweet and tender juices 

Have been hardened into wood, — 

That to the world are children ; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 

Than reaches the trunks below. 

Come to me, O ye children ! 

And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are singing 

In your sunny atmosphere. 

For what are all our contrivings. 
And the wisdom of our books, 

When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 



Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said ; 

For ye are living poems. 
And all the rest are dead. 



SANDALPHON. 

Have you read in the Talmud of old. 
In the Legends the Rabbins have told 

Of the limitless realms of the air. 
Have you read it, — the marvellous story 
Of .Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 

Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer } 

How, erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the City Celestial he waits. 

With his feet on the ladder of light. 
That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 

Alone in the desert at night ? 

The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hymn, and expire 



410 BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 


With the song's irresistible stress ; 


EPIMETHEUS, 


Expire in their rapture and wonder, 




As harp-strings are broken asunder 


OR THE poet's AFTERTHOUGHT. 


By music they throb to express. 






Have I dreamed .' or was it real, 


But serene in the rapturous throng, 


What I saw as in a vision. 


Unmoved by the rush of the song, 


When to marches hymeneal 


With eyes unimpassioned and slow, 


In the land of the Ideal 


Among the dead angels, the death- 


Moved my thought o'er Fields Ely- 


less 


sian ? 


Sandalphon stands listening breath- 




less 


What ! are these the guests whose glances 


To sounds that ascend from below ; — 


Seemed like sunshine gleaming round 


From the spirits on earth that adore. 


me ? 
These the wild, bewildering fancies. 


From the souls that entreat and im- 


That with dithyrambic dances 


plore 


As with magic circles bound me ? 


In the fervor and passion of prayer ; 




From the hearts that are broken with 


Ah ! how cold are their caresses ! 


losses, 


Pallid cheeks, and haggard bosoms ! 


And weary with dragging the crosses 


Spectral gleam their snow-white dresses. 


Too heavy for mortals to 'bear. 


And from loose, dishevelled tresses 




Fall the hyacinthine blossoms ! 


And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 




And they change into flowers in his 


O my songs ! whose winsome measures 


hands. 


Filled my heart with secret rapture ! 


Into garlands of purple and red ; 


Children of my golden leisures ! 


And beneath the great arch of the por- 


Must even your delights and pleasures 


tal, 


Fade and perish with the capture 1 


Through the streets of the City Immor- 




tal 


Fair they seemed, those songs sonorous. 


Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 


When they came to me unbidden ; 




Voices single, and in chorus, 


It is but a legend, I know, — 


Like the wild-birds singing o'er us 


A fable, a phantom, a show. 


In the dark of branches hidden. 


Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 




Yet the old mediaeval tradition, 


Disenchantment ! Disillusion ! 


The beautiful, strange superstition, 


Must each noble aspiration 


But haunts me and holds me the more. 


Come at last to this conclusion, 




Jarring discord, wild confusion, 


When I look from my window at night, 


Lassitude, renunciation ? 


And the welkin above is all white. 




All throbbing and panting with stars. 


Not with steeper fall nor faster. 


Among them majestic is standing 


From the sun's serene dominions. 


Sandalphon the angel, expanding 


Not through brighter i^ealms nor vaster. 


His pinions in nebulous bars. 


In swift ruin and disaster, 




Icarus fell with shattered pinions ! 


And the legend, I feel, is a part 




Of the hunger and thirst of the heart. 


Sweet Pandora ! dear Pandora ! 


The frenzy and fire of tiie brain. 


Why did mighty Jove create thee 


That grasps at the fruitage forbidden. 


Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 


The golden pomegranates of Eden, 


Beautiful as young Aurora, 


To quiet its fever and pain. 


If to win thee is to hate thee ? 



EPJMETHEUS. 



411 



No, not hate thee ! for this feeling 
Of unrest and long resistance 

Is but passionate appealing, 

A prophetic whisper stealing 
O'er the chords of our existence. 

Him whom thou dost once enamor, 

Thou, beloved, never leavest ; 
In life's discord, strife, and clamor, 
Still he feels thy spell of glamour ; 
Him of Hope thou ne'er bereavest. 

Weary hearts by thee are lifted. 

Struggling souls by thee are strength- 
ened, 
Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 



Truth from falsehood cleansed and sifted, 
Lives, like days in summer, length- 
ened ! 

Therefore art thou ever dearer, 

O my Sibyl, my deceiver ! 
For thou makest each mystery clearer, 
And the unattained seems nearer. 

When thou fillest my heart with 
fever ! 

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces ! 

Though the fields around us wither, 
There are ampler realms and spaces, 
Where no foot has left its traces : 

Let us turn and wander thither ! 




%l^^^- 



1 



BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE. 




FLIGHT THE SECOND. 




THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 


And there will I keep you forever, 
Yes, forever and a day, 




IjETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 


Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 




When the night is beginning to lower, 


And moulder in dust away ! 




Comes a pause in the day's occupa- 






tions, 






That is known as the Children's Hour. 


SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. 




I hear in the chamber above me 


Labor with what zeal we will, 




The patter of little feet. 


Something still remains undone, 




The sound of a door that is opened. 


Something uncompleted still 




And voices soft and sweet. 


Waits the rising of the sun. 




From my study I see in the lamplight, 


By the bedside, on the stair, 




Descending the broad hall stair, 


At the threshold, near the gates, 




Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 


With its menace or its prayer, 




And Edith with golden hair. 


Like a mendicant it waits ; 




A whisper, and then a silence : 


Waits, and will not go away ; 




Yet I know by their merry eyes 


Waits, and will not be gainsaid ; 




They are plotting and planning together 


By the cares of yesterday 




To take me by surprise. 


Each to-day is heavier made ; 




A sudden rush from the stairway, 


Till at length the burden seems 




A sudden raid from the hall ! 


Greater than our strength can bear, 




By three doors left unguarded 


Heavy as the weight of dreams, 




They enter my castle wall ! 


Pressing on us everywhere. 




They climb up into my turret 


And we stand from day to day. 




O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 


Like the dwarfs of times gone by, 




If I try to escape, they surround me ; 


Who, as Northern legends say. 




They seem to be everywhere. 


On their shoulders held the sky. 




They almost devour me with kisses. 






Their arms about me entwine. 


ENCELADUS. 




Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 






In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 


Under Mount Etna he lies. 
It is slumber, it is not death ; 




Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 


For he struggles at times to arise, 




Because you have scaled the wall. 


And above him the lurid skies 




Such an old mustache as I am 


Are hot with his fiery breath. 




Is not a match for you all ! 


The crags are piled on his breast. 




I have you fast in my fortress, 


The earth is heaped on his head ; 




And will not let you depart, 


But the groans of his wild unrest. 




But put you down into the dungeon 


Though smothered and half suppressed. 




In the round-tower of my heart. 


Are heard, and he is not dead. 





I 



WEARINESS. 



4'3 



And the nations far away 
Are watching with eager eyes ; 

They talk together and say, 

"To-morrow, perhaps to-day, 
Enceladus will arise ! " 

And the old gods, the austere 

Oppressors in their strength, 
Stand aghast and white with fear 
At the ominous sounds they hear. 

And tremble, and mutter, " At length ! ' 

Ah me ! for the land that is sown 

With the harvest of despair ! 
Where the burning cinders, blown 



From the lips of the overthrown 
Enceladus, fill the air. 

Where ashes are heaped in drifts 

Over vineyard and field and town. 
Whenever he starts and lifts 
His head through the blackened rifts 
Of the crags that keep him down. 

See, see ! the red light shines ! 

'T is the glare of his awful eyes ! 
And the storm-wind shouts through the 

pines 
Of Alps and of Apennines, 

" Enceladus, arise ! " 




WEARINESS. 

O LiTi'LE feet ! that such long years 
Must wander on through hopes and fears. 
Must ache and bleed beneath your 
load ; 



I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
Am weary, tliinking of your road ! 

O little hands ! that, weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long, 



414 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Have still so long to give or ask ; 
I, who so much with book and pen 


With passions into ashes turned 
Now covers and conceals its fires. 


Have toiled among my fellow-men, 
Am weary, thinking of your task. 

O little hearts ! that throb and beat 


O little souls ! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 
Direct from heaven, their source di 


With such impatient, feverish heat. 

Such limitless and strong desires ; 
Mine that so long has glowed and 
burned. 


vme ; 
Refracted through the mist of years, 
How red my setting sun appears. 
How lurid looks this soul of mine ! 




SNOW-FLAKES. 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her gannents 
shaken. 
Over the woodlands brown and bare. 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Silent, and soft, and slow 
Descends the snow. 

Even as our cloudy fancies take 

Suddenly shape in some divine expres- 
sion. 
Even as the troubled heart doth make 
In the white countenance confession. 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 



This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; 
This is the secret of despair, 

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded. 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 



A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 

O GIFT of God ! O perfect day : 
Whereon shall no man work, but play ; 
Whereon it is enough for me, 
Not to be doing, but to be ! 

Through every fibre of my brain. 
Through every nerve, through every vein, 



THE CUMBERLAND. 415 


I feel the electric thrill, the touch 


To try the force 


Of life, that seems almost too much. 


Of our ribs of oak. 


I hear the wind among the trees 


Down upon us heavily runs, 


Playing celestial symphonies ; 


Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 


I see the branches downward bent. 


Then comes a puft" of smoke from her 


Like keys of some great instrument. 


guns, 




And leaps the terrible death. 


And over me unrolls on high 


With fiery breath. 


The splendid scenery of the sky, 


From each open port. 


Where through a sapphire sea the sun 




Sails like a golden galleon, 


We are not idle, but send her straight 




Defiance back in a full broadside ! 


Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, 


As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, 


Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 


Rebounds our heavier hail 


Whose steep sierra far uplifts 


From each iron scale 


Its craggy summits white with drifts. 


Of the monster's hide. 


Blow, winds ! and waft through all the 


" Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries. 


rooms 


In his arrogant old plantation strain. 


The snow-flakes of the cherrj'-blooms ! 


" Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 


Blow, winds ! and bend within my reach 


" It is better to sink than to yield ! " 


The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 


And the whole air pealed 




With the cheers of our men. 


Life and Love ! happy throng 




Of thoughts, whose only speech is song ! 


Then, like a kraken huge and black. 


heart of man ! canst thou not be 


She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 


Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 


Down went the Cumberland all a wrack. 


1S60. 


With a sudden shudder of death. 




And the cannon's breath 




For her dying gasp. 


THE CUMBERLAND. 






Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 


At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 


Still floated our flag at the mainmast 


On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of- 


head. 


war ; 


Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 


And at times from the fortress across the 


Every waft of the air 


bay 


Was a whisper of prayer, 


The alarum of drums swept past, 


Or a dirge for the dead. 


Or a bugle blast 




From the camp on the shore. 


Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the 




seas ! 


Then far away to the south uprose 


Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 


A little feather of snow-white smoke. 


Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, 


And we knew that the iron ship of our 


Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 


foes 


Shall be one again. 
And without a seam ! 


Was steadily steering its course 



BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE. 


FLIGHT THE THIRD. 


FATA MORGANA. 


For as soon as the dawn approaches 




It vanishes away. 


O SWEET illusions of Song, 




That tempt me everywhere, 


It sits there in the moonlight, 


In the lonely fields, and the throng 


Itself as pale and still, 


Of the crowded thoroughfare ! 


And points with its airy finger 




Across the window-sill. 


I approach and ye vanish away, 




I grasp you, and ye are gone ; 


Without, before the window. 


But ever by night and by day, 


Thei-e stands a gloomy pine, 


The melody soundeth on. 


Whose boughs wave upward and down- 




ward 


As the weary traveller sees 


As wave these thoughts of mine. 


In desert or prairie vast. 




Blue lakes, overhung with trees. 


And underneath its branches 


That a pleasant shadow cast ; 


Is the grave of a little child. 




Who died upon life's threshold. 


Fair towns with turrets high. 


And never wept nor smiled. 


And shining roofs of gold. 




That vanish as he draws nigh. 


What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! 


Like mists together rolled, — 


That haunt my troubled brain ? 




That vanish when day approaches, 


So I wander and wander along, 


And at night return again ? 


And forever before me gleams 




The shining city of song, 


What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! 


In the beautiful land of dreams. 


But the statues without breath, 




That stand on the bridge overarching 


But when I would enter the gate 


The silent river of death } 


Of that golden atmosphere, 




It is gone, and I wander and wait 




For the vision to reappear. 


THE MEETING. 


THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 


After so long an absence 




At last we meet again : 


Each heart has its haunted chamber, 


Does the meeting give us pleasure. 


Where the silent moonlight falls ! 


Or does it give us pain ? 


On the floor are mysterious footsteps, 




There are whispers along the walls ! 


The tree of life has been shaken, 




And but few of us linger now. 


And mine at times is haunted 


Like the Prophet's two or three berries 


By phantoms of the Past, 


In the top of the uppermost bough. 


As motionless as shadows 




By the silent moonlight cast. 


We cordially greet each other 




In the old, familiar tone ; 


A form sits by the window. 


And we think, though we do not say it» 


That is not seen by day, 


How old and gray he is grown ! 



THE CHALLF.XGE. 



417 



We speak of a Merry Christmas 
And many a Happy New Year ; 

But each in his heart is thinking 
Of those that are not here. 

We speak of friends and their fortunes, 
And of what they did and said, 

Till the dead alone seem living, 
And the living alone seem dead. 

And at last we hardly distinguish 
Between the ghosts and the guests ; 

And a mist and shadow of sadness 
Steals over our merriest jests. 



VOX POPULI. 

When Mazarvan the Magician, 
Journeyed westward through Cathay, 

Nothing heard he but the praises 
Of Badoura on his way. 

But the lessening rumor ended 
When he came to Khaledan, 

There the folk were talking only 
Of Prince Camaralzaman. 

So it happens with the poets : 
Every province hath its own ; 

Camaralzaman is famous 
Where Badoura is unknown. 



THE CASTLE-BUn.DER. 

A GENTLE boy, with soft and silken 
locks, 
A dreamy bo)', with brown and tender 
eyes, 
A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks, 
And towers that touch imaginary 
skies. 

A fearless rider on his father's knee, 
An eager listener unto stories told 

At the Round Table of the nursery, 
Of heroes and adventures manifold. 

There will be other towers for thee to 
build ; 
There will be other steeds for thee to 
ride ; 

27 



There will be other legends, and all 
filled 
With greater marvels and more glori- 
fied. 

Build on, and make thy castles high and 
fair, 
Rising and reaching upward to the 
skies ; 
Listen to voices in the upper air. 

Nor lose thy simple faith in mysteries. 



CHANGED. 

From the outskirts of the town. 

Where of old the mile-stone stood. 
Now a stranger, looking down 
I behold the shadowy crown 
Of the dark and haunted wood. 

Is it changed, or am I changed .' 

Ah ! the oaks are fresh and green. 
But the friends with whom I ranged 
Through their thickets are estranged 
By the years that intervene. 

Bright as ever flows the sea, 
Bright as ever shines the sun, 

But alas ! they seem to me 

Not the sun that used to be, 
Not the tides that used to run. 



THE CHALLENGE. 

I HAVE a vague remembrance 

Of a story, that is told 
In some ancient Sjianish legend 

Or chronicle of old. 

It was when brave King Sanchez 
Was before Zamora slain. 

And his great besieging army 
Lay encamjied upon the plain. 

Don Diego de Ordonez 
Sallied forth in front of all. 

And -shouted loud his challenge 
To the warders on the wall. 

All the |ico])lc of Zamora, 

Both the born and the unborn, 



4i8 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



As traitors did he challenge 
With taunting words of scorn. 

The living, in their houses, 

And in their graves, the dead ! 

And the waters of their rivers, 

And their wine, and oil, and bread ! 

There is a greater army, 

That besets us round with strife, 
A starving, numberless army, 

At all the gates of life. 

The poverty-stricken millions 

Who challenge our wine and bread, 

And impeach us all as traitors, 
Both the living and the dead. 

And whenever I sit at the banquet. 
Where the feast and song are high. 

Amid the mirth and the music 
I can hear that fearful cry. 

And hollow and haggard faces 

Look into the lighted hall. 
And wasted hands are extended 

To catch the crumbs that fall. 

For within there is light and plenty, 

And odors fill the air ; 
But without there is cold and darkness, 

And hunger and despair. 

And there in the camp of famine. 

In wind and cold and rain, 
Christ, the great Lord of the army, 

Lies dead upon the plain ! 



THE BROOK AND THE WAVE. 

The brooklet came from the mountain, 

As sang the bard of old. 
Running with feet of silver 

Over the sands of gold ! 

Far away on the briny ocean 
There rolled a turbulent wave, 

Now singing along the sea-beach, 
Now howling along the cave. 

And the brooklet has found the billow, 
Though they flowed so far apart, 



And has filled with its freshness and 
sweetness 
That turbulent, bitter heart ! 



FROM THE SPANISH CANCIO- 

NEROS. 



Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful. 
Heart so full of care and cumber, 
I was lapped in rest and slumber, 
Ye have made me wakeful, wistful ! 

J 

In this life of labor endless 

Who shall comfort my distresses .-' 

Querulous my soul and friendless 

In its sorrow shuns caresses. 

Ye have made me, ye have made me 

Querulous of you, that care not. 

Eyes so tristful, yet I darei not ■ 

Say to what ye have betrayed me. 



Some day, some day, 
O troubled breast, 
Shalt thou find rest. 

If Love in thee 
To grief give birth. 
Six feet of earth 
Can more than he ; 
There calm and free 
And unoppressed 
Shalt thou find rest. 

The unattained 
In life at last, 
When life is passed. 
Shall all be gained ; 
And no more pained, 
No more distressed, 
Shalt thou find rest. 



Come, O Death, so silent flying 
That unheard thy coming be. 
Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 

For thy sure approach perceiving 
In my constancy and pain 



AFTERMA TH. 



419 



I new life should win again, 
Thinking that I am not living. 
So to me, unconscious lying, 
All unknown thy coming be, 
\.est the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 

Unto him who finds thee hateful, 
Death, thou art inhuman pain ; 
But to me, who dying gain, 
Life is but a task ungrateful. 
Come, then, with my wish complying. 
All unheard thy coming be, 
Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to mc. 



Glove of black in white hand bare, 
And about hjr forehead pale 
Wound a thin, transparent veil. 
That doth not conceal her hair ; 
Sovereign attitude and air. 
Cheek and neck alike displaved. 



With coquettish charms arrayed. 
Laughing eyes and fugitive ; — 
This is killing men that live, 
'T is not mourning for the dead. 



AFTERMATH. 

When the Summer fields are mown. 
When the birds are fledged and flown, 

And the dry leaves strew the path ; 
With the falling of the snow, 
With the cawing of the crow. 
Once again the fields we mow 

And gather in the aftermath. 

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers 
Is this harvesting of ours ; 

Not the upland clover bloom ; 
But the rowen mixed with weeds, 
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads. 
Where the poppy drops its seeds 

In the silence and the gloom. 



BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE. 


FLIGHT THE FOURTH. 


CHARLES SUMNER. 


TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. 


Garlands upon his grave, 
And flowers upon his hearse, 
And to the tender heart and brave 
The tribute of this verse. 


The ceaseless rain is falling fast. 
And yonder gilded vane, 

Immovable for three days past. 
Points to the misty main. 


His was the troubled life. 
The conflict and the pain, 
The grief, the bitterness of strife, 
The honor without stain. 


It drives me in upon myself 

And to the fireside gleams. 
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, 

And still more pleasant dreams. 


Like VVinkelried, he took 
Into his manly breast 
The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke 
A path for the oppressed. 


I read whatever bards have sung 

Of lands beyond the sea. 
And the bright days when I was young 

Come thronging back to me. 


Then from the fatal field 
Upon a nation's heart 
Borne like a warrior on his shield ! — 
So should the brave depart. 


In fancy I can hear again 
The Alpine torrent's roar. 

The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 
The sea at Elsinore. 


Death takes us by surprise, 
And stays our hurrying feet ; 
The great design unfinished lies. 
Our lives are incomplete. 


I see the convent's gleaming wall 
Rise from its groves of pine. 

And towers of old cathedrals tall. 
And castles by the Rhine. 


But in the dark unknown 
Perfect their circles seem. 
Even as a bridge's arch of stone 
Ls rounded in the stream. 


I journey on by park and spire, 

Beneath centennial trees, 
Through fields with poppies all on fire. 

And gleams of distant seas. 


Alike are life and death, 
When life in death survives. 
And the uninterrupted breath 
Inspires a thousand lives. 


I fear no more the dust and heat. 

No more I feel fatigue. 
While journeying with another's feet 

O'er many a lengthening league. 


Were a star quenched on high, 
For ages would its light, 
Still travelling downward from the sky. 
Shine on our mortal sight. 


Let others traverse sea and land, 
And toil through various climes, 

I turn the world round with my hand 
Reading these poets' rhymes. 


So when a great man dies. 
For years beyond our ken, 
The light he leaves behind him lies 
Upon the paths of men. 


From them I learn whatever lies 
Beneath each changing zone, 

And see, when looking with their eyes, 
Better than with mine own. 



MOXTE 


CASS I NO. 42 I 


CADENABBIA. 


Linger until upon my brain 




■ Is stamped an image of the scene. 


LAKE OF COMO. 


Then fade into the air again, 




And be as if thou hadst not been. 


No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks 




The silence of the summer day, 




As by the loveliest of all lakes 


MOXTE CASSIXO. 


I while the idle hours away. 






TERR.\ 1)1 L.WORO. 


I pace the leafy colonnade 




Where level branches of the plane 


BE.vuriKfL valley ! through who.se ver- 


Above me weave a roof of shade 


dant meads 


Impervious to the sun and rain. 


Unheard the Garigliano glides along ; — 




The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, 


At times a sudden rush of air 


The river taciturn of classic song. 


Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, 




And gleams of sunshine toss and flare 


The Land of Labor and the Land of 


Like torches down the path I tread. 


Rest, 




Where mediaeval towns are white on all 


By Somariva's garden gate 


The hillsides, and where every moun- 


I make the marble stairs my seat, 


tain's crest 


And hear the water, as I wait, 


Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. 


Lapping the steps beneath my feet. 






There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface 


The undulation sinks and swells 


Was dragged with contumely from his 


Along the stony parapets, 


throne ; 


And far away the floating bells 


Sciarra Colonna, was that day's di.sgracc 


Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. 


The Pontiff's only, or in part thine 




own .' 


Silent and slow, by tower and town 




The freighted barges come and go. 


There is Ceprano, where a renegade 


Their pendent shadows gliding down 


Was each Apulian, as great Dante 


By town and tower submerged below. 


saith. 




When Manfred by his men-at-arms be- 


The hills sweep upward from the shore, 


trayed 


With villas scattered one by one 


Spurred on to Benevento and to death. 


Upon their wooded spurs, and lower 




Bellaggio blazing in the sun. 


There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, 




Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid 


And dimly seen, a tangled mass 


light 


Of walls and woods, of light and shade. 


Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the 


Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass 


crown 


Varenna with its white cascade. 


Of splendor seen o'er cities in the 




night. 


I ask myself, Ls this a dream .' 




Will it all vanish into air ? 


Doubled the splendor is, that in its 


Is there a land of such supreme 


streets 


And perfect beauty anywhere .' 


The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy 


' 


played. 


Sweet vision ! Do not fade away ; 


And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that 


Linger until my heart shall take 


he repeats 


Into itself the summer day. 


In iionderous folios for scholastics 


And all the beauty of the lake. 


made. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud 
That pauses on a mountain summit • 
high, 

Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud 
And venerable walls against the sky. 

Well I remember how on foot I climbed 
The stony pathway leading to its 
gate ; 
Above, the convent bells for vespers 
chimed. 
Below, the darkening town grew deso- 
late. 

Well I remember the low arch and 
dark. 
The court-yard with its well, the ter- 
race wide, 
From which far down the valley, like a 
park 
Veiled in the evening mists, was dim 
descried. 

The day was dying, and with feeble 
hands 
Caressed the mountain-tops ; the vales 
between 
Darkened ; the river in the meadow- 
lands 
Sheathed itself as a sword, and was 
not seen. 

The silence of the place was like a sleep. 
So full of rest it seemed ; each passing 
tread 

Was a reverberation from the deep 
Recesses of the ages that are dead. 

For, more than thirteen centuries ago, 
Benedict fleeing from the gates of 
Rome, 
A youth disgusted with its vice and 
woe. 
Sought in these mountain solitudes a 
home. 

He founded here his Convent and his 
Rule 
Of prayer and work, and counted work 
as prayer ; 
The pen became a clarion, and his school 
Flamed like a beacon in the midnight 
air. 



What though Boccaccio, in his reckless 
way, 
Mocking the lazy brotherhood, de- 
plores 
The illuminated manuscripts, that lay 
Torn and neglected on the dusty floors .' 

Boccaccio was a novelist, a child 
Of fancy and of fiction at the best ! 

This the urbane librarian said, and smiled 
Incredulous, as at some idle jest. 

Upon such themes as these, with one 
young friar 
I sat conversing late into the night, 
Till in its cavernous chimney the wood- 
fire 
Had burnt its heart out like an ancho- 
rite. 

And then translated, in my convent 
cell. 
Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay, 
And, as a monk who hears the matin 
bell. 
Started from sleep; already it was 
day. 

From the high window I beheld the 
scene 
On which Saint Benedict so oft had 
gazed, — 
The mountains and the valley in the 
sheen 
Of the bright sun, — and stood as one 
amazed. 

Gray mists were rolling, rising, vanish- 
ing; 
The woodlands glistened with their 
jewelled crowns ; 
Far off the mellow bells began to ring 
For matins in the half-awakened towns. 

The conflict of the Present and the 
Past, 
The ideal and the actual in our life, 
As on a field of battle held me fast, 
Where this world and the next world 
were at strife. 

For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, 
I saw the iron horses of the steam 



AMALFI. 42 


3 


Toss to the morning air their plumes of 


Cross of crimson on the breast ? 


smoke. 


Where the pomp of camp and court ? 




And woke, as one awakcth from a 


Where the pilgrims with their prayers 


> 


dream. 


Where the merchants with their wares, 
And their gallant brigantines 
Sailing safely into port 




AMALFI. 


Chased by corsair Algerines ? 




Sweet the memory is to me 


Vanished like a fleet of cloud. 




Of a land beyond the sea, 


Like a passing trumpet-blast, 




Where the waves and mountains meet, 


Are those splendors of the past, 




Where, amid her mulberry-trees 


And the commerce and the crowd ! 




Sits Amalti in the heat, 


Fathoms deep beneath the seas 




Bathing ever her white feet 


Lie the ancient wharves and quays, 




In the tideless summer seas. 


Swallowed by the engulfing waves ; 
Silent streets and vacant halls, 




In the middle of the town, 


Ruined roofs and towers and walls ; 




From its fountains in the hills, 


Hidden from all mortal eyes 




Tumbling through the narrow gorge, 


Deep the sunken city lies : 




The Canneto rushes down, 


Even cities have their graves ! 




Turns the great wheels of the mills. 






Lifts the hammers of the forge. 


This is an enchanted land ! 
Round the headlands far away 




'T is a stairway, not a street, 


Sweeps the blue Salernian bay 




That ascends the deep ravine, 


With its sickle of white sand : 




Where the torrent leaps between 


Further still and furthermost 




Rocky walls that almost meet. 


On the dim discovered coast 




Toiling up from stair to stair 


Passtum with its ruins lies, 




Peasant girls their burdens bear ; 


And its roses all in bloom 




Sunburnt daughters of the soil, 


Seem to tinge the fatal skies 




Stately figures tall and straight, 


Of that lonely land of doom. 




What inexorable fate 






Dooms them to this life of toil .' 


On his terrace, high in air. 
Nothing doth the good monk care 




Lord of vineyards and of lands, 


For such worldly themes as these. 




Far above the convent stands. 


From the garden just below 




On its terraced walk aloof 


Little puffs of perfume blow, 




Leans a monk with folded hands, 


And a sound is in his ears 




Placid, satisfied, serene. 


Of the murmur of the bees 




Looking down upon the scene 


In the shining chestnut-trees ; 




Over wall and red-tiled roof; 


Nothing else he heeds or hears. 




Wondering unto what good end 


All the landscape seems to swoon 




All this toil and traffic tend, 


In the happy afternoon ; 




And why all men cannot be 


Slowly o'er his senses creep 




Free from care and free from pain, 


The encroaching waves of sleep, 




And the sordid love of gain, 


And he sinks as sank the town, 




And as indolent as he. 


Unresisting, fathoms down, 
Into caverns cool and deep ! 




Where arc now the freighted barks 






From the marts of cast and west .' 


Walled about with drifts of snow, 




Where the knights in iron sarks 


Hearing the fierce north-wind blow, 




Journeying to the Holy Land, 


Seeing all the landscape white. 




Glove of steel upon the hand, 


And the river cased in ice, 





424 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 



Comes this memory of delight, 
Comes this vision unto me 
Of a long-lost Paradise 
In the land beyond the sea. 



THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS. 

Up soared the lark into the air, 
A shaft of song, a winged prayer. 
As if a soul, released from pain, 
Were flying back to heaven again. 

St. Francis heard ; it was to him 
An emblem of the Seraphim ; 
The upward motion of the fire. 
The light, the heat, the heart's desire. 

Around Assisi's convent gate 
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait. 
From moor and mere and darksome wood 
Came flocking for their dole of food. 

" O brother birds," St. Francis said, 
" Ye come to me and ask for bread. 
But not with bread alone to-day 
Shall ye be fed and sent away. 

" Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds. 

With manna of celestial words ; 

Not mine, though mine they seem to 

be, 
Not mine, though they be spoken through 

me. 

" O, doubly are ye bound to praise 
The great Creator in your lays ; 
He giveth you your plumes of down, 
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of 
brown. 

" He giveth you your wings to fly 
And breathe a purer air on high, 
And careth for you everywhere, 
Who for yourselves so little care ! " 

With flutter of swift wings and songs 
Together rose the feathered throngs, 
And singing scattered far apart ; 
Deep peace was in St. Francis' heart. 

He knew not if the brotherhood 
His homily had understood ; 



He only knew that to one ear 

The meaning of his words was clear. 

BELISARIUS. 

I AM poor and old and blind ; 
The sun burns me, and the wind 

Blows through the city gate 
And covers me with dust 
From the wheels of the august 

Justinian the Great. 

It was for him I chased 

The Persians o'er wild and waste, 

As General of the East ; 
Night after night I lay 
In their camps of yesterday ; 

Their forage was my feast. 

For him, with sails of red, 
And torches at mast-head. 

Piloting the great fleet, 
I swept the Afric coasts 
And scattered the Vandal hosts, 

Like dust in a windy street. 

For him I won again 

The Ausonian realm and reign, 

Rome and Parthenope ; 
And all the land was mine 
From the summits of Apennine 

To the shores of either sea. 

For him, in my feeble age, 
I dared the battle's rage. 

To save Byzantium's state, 
When the tents of Zabei gan. 
Like snow-drifts overran 

The road to the Golden Gate. 

And for this, for this, behold ! 
Infirm and blind and old, 

With gray, uncovered head. 
Beneath the very arch 
Of my triumphal march, 

I stand and beg my bread ! 

Methinks I still can hear. 
Sounding distinct and near, 

The Vandal monarch's cry, 
As, captive and disgraced. 
With majestic step he paced, — 

" All, all is Vanity ! " 



SONGO RIVER. 



425 



Ah ! vainest of all things 
Is the gratitude of kings ; 

The plaudits of the crowd 
Are but the clatter of feet 
At midnight in the street, 

Hollow and restless and loud. 

But the bitterest disgrace 
Is to see forever the face 

Of the Monk of Ephesus ? 
The unconquerable will 
This, too, can bear ; — I still 

Am Belisarius ! 

SOXGO RIVER. 

Nowhere such a devious stream, 
Save in fancy or in dream, 
Winding slow through busli and brake 
Links together lake and lake. 

Walled with woods or sandv shelf, 
Ever doubling on itself 
Hows the stream, so still and slow 
That it hardly seems to flow. 

Never errant knight of old, 
Lost in woodland or on wold. 
Such a winding path pursued 
Through the sylvan solitude. 

Never school-boy in his tjuest 
After hazel-nut or nest. 
Through the forest in and out 
Wandered loitering thus about. 



In the mirror of its tide 
Tangled thickets on each side 
Hang inverted, and between 
Floating cloud or sky serene. 

Swift or swallow on the wing 
Seems the only living thing, 
Or the loon, that laughs and flies 
Down to those reflected skies. 

Silent stream ! thy Indian name 
Unfamiliar is to fame ; 
For thou hidest here alone, 
Well content to lie unknown. 

But thy tranquil waters teach 
Wisdom deep as human speech, 
Moving without haste or noise 
In unbroken equijjoise. 

Though thou turnest no busy mill. 
And art ever calm and still, 
J^ven thy silence seems to say 
To the traveller on his way : — 

" Traveller, hurrving from the heat 
Of the city, stay thy feet ! 
Rest awhile, nor longer waste 
Life with inconsiderate haste ! 

" Be not like a stream that brawls 
Loud with shallow waterfalls, 
But in quiet self-control 
Link together soul and soul." 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


PRELUDE. 


And through the ancient oaks o'erhead 




Mysterious voices moaned and fled. 


THE WAYSIDE INN. 






But from the parlor of the inn 


One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 


A pleasant murmur smote the ear. 


Across the meadows bare and brown. 


Like water rushing through a weir ; 


The windows of the wayside inn 


Oft interrupted by the din 


Gleamed red with fire-light through the 


Of laughter and of loud applause, 


leaves 


And, in each intervening pause, 


Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves 


The music of a violin. 


Their crimson curtains rent and thin. 


The fire-light, shedding over all 




The splendor of its ruddy glow. 


As ancient is this hostelry 


Filled the whole parlor large and low ; 


As any in the land may be, 


It gleamed on wainscot and on wall, 


Built in the old Colonial day. 


It touched with more than wonted grace 


When men lived in a grander way, 


Fair Princess Mary's pictured face ; 


With ampler hospitality ; 


It bronzed the rafters overhead, 


A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 


On the old spinet's ivory keys 


Now somewhat fallen to decay. 


It played inaudible melodies, 


With weather-stains upon the wall, 


It crowned the sombre clock with flame, 


And stairways worn, and crazy doors, 


The hands, the hours, the maker's name. 


And creaking and uneven floors, 


And painted with a livelier red 


And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall. 


The Landlord's coat-of-arms again ; 




And, flashing on the window-pane, 


A region of repose it seems. 


Emblazoned with its light and shade 


A place of slumber and of dreams, 


The jovial rhymes, that still remain, 


Remote among the wooded hills ! 


Writ near a century ago, 


For there no noisy railway speeds, 


By the great Major Molineaux, 


Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds ; 


Whom Hawthorne has immortal made. 


But noon and night, the panting teams 




Stop under the great oaks, that throw 


Before the blazing fire of wood 


Tangles of light and shade below. 


Erect the rapt musician stood ; 


On roofs and doors and window-sills. 


And ever and anon he bent 


Across the road the barns display 


His head upon his instrument. 


Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay, 


And seemed to listen, till he caught 


Through the wide doors the breezes blow, 


Confessions of its secret thought, — 


The wattled cocks strut to and fro, 


The joy, the triumph, the lament, 


And, half effaced by rain and shine. 


The exultation and the pain ; 


The Red Horse prances on the sign. 


Then, by the magic of his art. 




He soothed the throbbings of its heart, 


Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode 


And lulled it into peace again. 


Deep silence reigned, save when a gust 




Went rushing down the county road, 


Around the fireside at their ease 


And skeletons of leaves, and dust. 


There sat a group of friends, entranced 


A moment quickened by its breath, 


With the delicious melodies ; 


Shuddered and danced their dance of 


Who from the far-off" noisy town 


death, 


Had to the wayside inn come down, 



THE WAYSIDE INN. 



4-' 7 



To rest beneath its old oak-trees. 
The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and 

speech, 
Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays. 
Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

But first the Landlord will I trace : 

Grave in his aspect and attire ; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he, 

Known in all Sudbury as " The Squire." 

Proud was he of his name and race, 

Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlor, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 

Upon the wall in colors blazed ; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field, 

With three wolf's heads, and for the 

crest 
A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 
Upon a helmet barred ; below 
The scroll reads, " By the name of 

Howe." 
And over this, no longer bright, 
Though glimmering with a latent light. 
Was hung the sword his grandsire bore 
In the rebellious days of yore, 
Down there at Concord in the fight. 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 
A Student of old books and days, 
To whom all tongues and lands were 

known 
And yet a lover of his own ; 
With many a social virtue graced, 
And yet a friend of solitude ; 
A man of such a genial mood 
The heart of all things he embraced. 
And yet of such fastidious taste, 
He never found the best too good. 
Books were his passion and delight, 
And in his upper room at home 
Stood many a rare and sumptuous tome, 
In vellum bound, with gold bedight, 
Great volumes garmented in white. 



Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 
He loved the twilight that surrounds 
The border-land of old romance ; 
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance, 
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds, 
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist. 
And mighty warriors sweep along. 
Magnified by the purple mist. 
The dusk of centuries and of song. 
The chronicles of Charlemagne, 
Of Merlin and the Mort d'Arthure, 
Mingled together in his brain 
With tales of Flores and Blanchefleur, 
Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 
Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 
Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. 

A young Sicilian, too, was there ; 

In sight of Etna born and bred. 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart and brain. 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo's fatal siege, 

Across the western seas he fled. 

In good King Bomba's happy reign. 

His face was like a summer night, 

All flooded with a dusky light ; 

His hands were small ; his teeth shone 

white 
As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke ; 
His sinews supple and strong as oak ; 
Clean shaven was he as a priest. 
Who at the mass on Sunday sings. 
Save that upon his upper lip 
His beard, a good palm's length at least, 
Level and pointed at the tip, 
Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. 
The poets read he o'er and o'er. 
And most of all the Immortal Four 
Of Italy ; and next to those. 
The story-telling bard of prose. 
Who wrote the joyous Tuscan tales 
Of the Decameron, that make 
Fiesole's green hills and vales 
Remembered for Boccaccio's sake. 
Much too of music was his thought ; 
The melodies and measures fraught 
With sunshine and the open air. 
Of vineyards and the singing sea 
Of his beloved Sicily ; 
And much it pleased him to peruse 
The songs of the Sicilian muse, — 
Bucolic songs by Meli sung 



428 



TALES OF A IVA YSIDE INJV. 



In the familiar peasant tongue, 
That made men say, " Behold ! once more 
The pitying gods to earth restore 
Theocritus of Syracuse ! " 

A Spanish Jew from Alicant 

With aspect grand and grave was there ; 

Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 



Through the Moluccas, and the seas 
That wash the shores of Celebes. 
All stories that recorded are 
By Pierre Alphonse he knew by heart,, 
And it was rumored he could say 
The Parables of Sandabar, 
And all the Fables of Pilpay, 
Or if not all, the greater part !. 




And attar of rose from the Levant. 
Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 
Abraham or Isaac, or at least 
Some later Prophet or High-Priest ; 
With lustrous eyes, and olive skin. 
And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin. 
The tumbling cataract of his beard. 
His garments breathed a spicy scent 
Of cinnamon and sandal blent. 
Like the soft aromatic gales 
That meet the mariner, who sails 



Well versed was he in Hebrew books-,. 
Talmud and Targum, and the lore 
Of Kabala ; and evermore 
There was a mystery in his looks ; 
His eyes seemed gazing far away. 
As if in vision or in trance 
He heard the solemn sackbut play, 
And saw the Jewish maidens dance. 

A Theologian, from the school 

Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there ;. 



THE WAYSIDE I/VN. 429 


Skilful alike with tongue and pen, 


Old ballads, and wild melodies 


He preached to all men everywhere 


Through mist and darkness pouring 


The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 


forth, 


The New Commandment given to men, 


Like Elivagar's river flowing 


Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 


Out of the glaciers of the North. 


Would help us in our utmost need. 




With reverent feet the earth he trod. 


The instrument on which he played 


Nor banished nature from his plan. 


Was in Cremona's workshops made. 


But studied still with deep research 


By a great master of the past. 


To build the Universal Church, 


Ere yet was lost the art divine ; 


Lofty as is the love of God, 


Fashioned of maple and of pine, 


And ample as the wants of man. 


That in Tyrolian forests vast 




Had rocked and wrestled with the 


A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 


blast : 


Was tender, musical, and terse ; 


Exquisite was it in design, 


The inspiration, the delight, 


Perfect in each minutest part. 


The gleam, the glory, the swift flight. 


A marvel of the lutist's art ; 


Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 


And in its hollow chamber, thus, 


The revelations of a dream. 


The maker from whose hands it came 


All these were his ; but with them came 


Had written his unrivalled name, — 


No envy of another's fame ; 


" Antonius Stradivarius." 


He did not find his sleep less sweet 




For music in some neighboring street, 


And when he played, the atmosphere 


Nor rustling hear in every breeze 


Was filled with magic, and the ear 


The laurels of Miltiades. 


Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 


Honor and blessings on his head 


Whose music had so weird a sound, 


While living, good report when dead, 


The hunted stag forgot to bound, 


Who, not too eager for renown. 


The leaping rivulet backward rolled, 


Accepts, but does not clutch, the crown ! 


The birds came down from bush and 

tree. 
The dead came from beneath the sea. 


Last the Musician, as he stood 


Illumined by that fire of wood ; 


The maiden to the harper's knee ! 


Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe. 




His figure tall and straight and lithe. 


The music ceased ; the applause was 


And every feature of his face 


loud. 


Revealing his Norwegian race ; 


The pleased musician smiled and bowed ; 


A radiance, streaming from within. 


The wood-fire clapped its hands of 


Around his eyes and forehead beamed. 


flame. 


The Angel with the violin. 


The shadows on the wainscot stirred, 


Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 


And from the harpsichord there came 


He lived in that ideal world 


A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 


Whose language is not speech, but 


A sound like that sent down at night 


song ; 


By birds of passage in their flight, 


Around him evermore the throng 


From the remotest distance heard. 


Of elves and sprites their dances whirled ; 




The Stromkarl sang, the cataract hurled 


Then silence followed ; then began 


Its headlong waters from the height ; 


A clamor for the Landlord's tale, — 


And mingled in the wild delight 


The story promiseci them of old, 


The scream of sea-birds in their flight, 


They said, but always left untold ; 


The rumor of the forest trees. 


And he, although a bashful man. 


The plunge of the implacable seas, 


And all his courage seemed to fail. 


The tumult of the wind at night. 


Finding excuse of no avail. 


Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, 


Yielded ; and thus the story ran. 



43 o TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 


To the belfry-chamber overhead. 




And startled the pigeons from their perch 


PAUL REVERE'S ride. 


On the sombre rafters, that round him 




made 


Listen, my children, and you shall hear 


Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 


Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 


By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 


On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 


To the highest window in the wall. 


five ; 


Where he paused to listen and look 


Hardly a man is now alive 


down 


Who remembers that famous day and 


A moment on the roofs of the town. 


year. 


And the moonlight flowing over all. 


He said to his friend, " If the British 


Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead. 


march 


In their night encampment on the hill, 


By land or sea from the town to-night. 


Wrapped in silence so deep and still 


Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 


That he could hear, like a sentinel's 


Of the North Church tower as a signal 


tread. 


light,— 


The watchful night-wind, as it went 


One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 


Creeping along from tent to tent. 


And I on the opposite shore will be. 


And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " 


Ready to ride and spread the alarm 


A moment only he feels the spell 


Through every Middlesex village and 


Of the place and the hour, and the secret 


farm, 


dread 


For the country-folk to be up and to 


Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 


arm." 


For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 




On a shadowy something far away. 


Then he said, " Good night ! " and with 


Where the river widens to meet the 


muffled oar 


bay — 


Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 


A line of black that bends and floats 


Just as the moon rose over the bay. 


On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 


Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 




The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 


Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 


A phantom ship, with each mast and 


Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 


spar 


On the opposite shore walked Paul Re- 


Across the moon like a prison bar. 


vere. 


And a huge black hulk, that was magni- 


Now he patted his horse's side. 


fied 


Now gazed at the landscape far and near. 


By its own reflection in the tide. 


Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 




And turned and tightened his saddle- 


Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and 


girth ; 


street. 


But mostly he watched with eager search 


. Wanders and watches with eager ears. 


The belfry tower of the Old North 


Till in the silence around him he hears 


Church, 


The muster of men at the barrack door, 


As it rose above the graves on the hill, 


The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. 


Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 


And the measured tread of the grena- 


And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's 


diers. 


height 


Marching down to their boats on the 


A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 


shore. 


He springs to the saddle, the bridle he 




turns. 


Then he climbed the tower of the Old 


But lingers and gazes, till full on his 


North Church, 


sight 


By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 


A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 



PAUL R EVE RE'S RIDE. 



43' 



A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 

dark. 
And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass- 
ing, a spark 



And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the 

ledge, 
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he 

rides. 




Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 

fleet : 
That was all ! And yet, through the 

gloom and the light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that 

night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, 

in his flight. 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the 

steep. 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 

deep. 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 



It was twelve by the village clock 
When he crossed the bridge into Med- 

ford town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock, 
And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
And felt the damp of the river fog. 
That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 
When he galloped into Lexington, 
He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
And the meeting-house windows, blank 

and bare, 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 



432 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 
When he came to the bridge in Concord 
town. 



Who that day would be lying dead, 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you 

have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 




He heard the bleating of the flock, 
And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 
And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall. 



How the farmers gave them ball for 

ball, 
From behind each fence and farm-yard 

wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 433 


Under the trees at the turn of the road, 


And he was speechless with surprise 


And only pausing to fire and load. 


To see Sir William's plumed head 




Brought to a level with the rest, 


So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 


And made the subject of a jest. 


And so through the night went his cry of 


And this perceiving, to appease 


alarm 


The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, 


To every Middlesex village and farm, — 


The Student said, with careless ease, 


A cry of defiance and not of fear, 


" The ladies and the cavaliers, 


A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 


The arms, the loves, the courtesies. 


door, 


The deeds of high emprise, I sing ! 


And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 


Thus Ariosto says, in words 


For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 


That have the stately stride and ring 


Through all our history, to the last. 


Of armed knights and clashing swords. 


In the hour of darkness and peril and 


Now listen to the tale I bring ; 


need, 


Listen ! though not to me belong 


The people will waken and listen to hear 


The flowing draperies of his song, 


The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 


The words that rouse, the voice that 


And the midnight message of Paul Re- 


charms. 


vere. 


The Landlord's tale was one of arms, 




Only a tale of love is mine, 




Blending the human and divine. 


INTERLUDE. 


A tale of the Decameron, told 




In Palmieri's garden old, 


The Landlord ended thus his tale, 


By Fiametta, laurel-crowned. 


Then rising took down from its nail 


While her companions lay around. 


The sword that hung there, dim with 


And heard the intermingled sound 


dust, 


Of airs that on their errands sped. 


And cleaving to its sheath with rust, 


And wild-birds gossiping overhead. 


And said, " This sword was in the fight." 


And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, 


The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 


And her own voice more sweet than all, 


" It is the sword of a good knight. 


Telling the tale, which, wanting these, 


Though homespun was his coat-of-mail ; 


Perchance may lose its power to please." 


What matter if it be not named 




Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, 




Excalibar, or Aroundight, 


THE STUDENT'S TALE. 


Or other name the books record ? 




Your ancestor, who bore this sword 


THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


As Colonel of the Volunteers, 




Mounted upon his old gray mare, 


One summer morning, when the sun was 


Seen here and there and everywhere. 


hot. 


To me a grander shape appears 


Weary with labor in his garden-plot, 


Than old Sir William, or what not. 


On a rude bench beneath his cottage 


Clinking about in foreign lands 


eaves, 


With iron gauntlets on his hands. 


Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 


And on his head an iron pot ! " 


Of a huge vine, that, with its arms out- 




spread, 


All laughed ; the Landlord's face grew 


Hung its delicious clusters overhead. 


red 


Below him, through the lovely valley, 


As his escutcheon on the wall ; 


flowed 


He could not comprehend at all 


The river Arno, like a winding road, 


The drift of what the Poet said ; 


And from its banks were lifted high in air 


For those who had been longest dead 


The spires and roofs of Florence called 


Were always greatest in his eyes ; 

2,S 


the Fair ; 



434 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



To him a marble tomb, that rose above 

His wasted fortunes and his buried 
love. 

For there, in banquet and in tourna- 
ment, 

His wealth had lavished been, his sub- 
stance spent, 

To woo and lose, since ill his wooing 
sped, 

Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, 



The brazen knocker of his palace door, 
Had now no strength to lift the wooden 

latch, 
That entrance gave beneath a roof of 

thatch. 
Companion of his solitary ways, 
Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, 
On him this melancholy man bestowed 
The love with which his nature over- 
flowed. 




Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, 
The ideal woman of a young man's dream. 

Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain. 
To this small farm, the last of his domain, 
His only comfort and his only care 
To prune his vines, and plant the fig and 

pear ; 
His only forester and only guest 
His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest. 
Whose willing hands had found so light 

of yore 



And so the empty-handed years went 

round. 
Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic 

sound. 
And so, that summer morn, he sat and 

mused 
With folded, patient hands, as he was 

used, 
And dreamily before his half-closed 

sight 
Floated the vision of his lost delight. 
Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 



435 



Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber 

heard 
The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, 

that dare 
The headlong plunge through eddying 

gulfs of air. 
Then, starting broad awake upon his 

perch. 
Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a 

church. 
And, looking at his master, seemed to 

say, 
" Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day ? " 
Ser Federigo thought not of the chase ; 
The tender vision of her lovely face, 
I will not say he seems to see, he sees 
In the leaf shadows of the trellises. 
Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child 
With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and 

wild, 
Coming undaunted up the garden walk. 
And looking not at him, but at the hawk. 
" Beautiful falcon ! " said he, " would 

that I 
Might hold thee on my wrist or see thee 

fly!" 
The voice was hers, and made strange 

echoes start 
Through all the haunted chambers of his 

heart. 
As an asolian harp through gusty doors 
Of some old ruin its wild music pours. 

" Who is thy mother, my fiir boy ? " he 

said. 
His hand laid softly on that shining 

head. 
" Monna Giovanna. Will you let me 

stay 
A little while, and with your falcon 

play .'* 
We live there, just beyond your garden 

wall. 
In the great house behind the poplars 

tall." 

So he spake on ; and Federigo heard 
As from afar each softly uttered word, 
And drifted onward through the golden 

gleams 
And shadows of the misty sea of dreams. 
As mariners becalmed through vapors 

drift. 



And feel the sea beneath them sink and 

lift. 
And hear far off the mournful breakers 

roar. 
And voices calling faintly from the 

shore ! 
Then, waking from his pleasant reveries, 
He took the little boy upon his knees, 
And told him stories of his gallant bird, 
Till in their friendship he became a third. 

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, 
Had come with friends to pass the sum- 
mer-time 
In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, 
O'erlooking Florence, but retired and 

still ; 
With iron gates, that opened through 

long lines 
Of sacred ilex and centennial pines. 
And terraced gardens, and broad steps 

of stone, 
And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown, 
And fountains palpitating in the heat. 
And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its 

feet. 
Here in seclusion, as a widow may. 
The lovely lady whiled the hours away. 
Pacing in sable robes the statued hall. 
Herself the stateliest statue among all. 
And seeing more and more, with secret 

joy. 

Her husband risen and living in her boy. 
Till the lost sense of life returned again. 
Not as delight, but as relief from pain. 
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his 

strength. 
Stormed down the terraces from length 

to length ; 
The screaming peacock chased in hot 

pursuit. 
And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. 
But his chief pastime was to watch the 

flight 
Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight. 
Beyond the trees that fringed the garden 

wall. 
Then downward stooping at some distant 

call: 
And as he gazed full often wondered he 
Who might the master of the falcon be. 
Until that happy morning, when he found 
Master and falcon in the cottage ground. 



436 TALES OF A IVA YSTDE INN. 


And now a shadow and a terror fell 


Passed through the garden gate into the 


On the great house, as if a passing-bell 


wood, 


Tolled from the tower, and filled each 


Under the lustrous leaves, and through 


spacious room 


the sheen 


With secret awe, and preternatural 


Of dewy sunshine showering down be- 


gloom ; 


tween. 


The petted boy grew ill, and day by day 


The one, close-hooded, had the attractive 


Pined with mysterious malady away. 


grace 


The mother's heart would not be com- 


Which sorrow sometimes lends a wom- 


forted ; 


an's face ; 


Her darling seemed to her already dead, 


Her dark eyes moistened with the mists 


And often, sitting by the sufferer's side. 


that roll 


" What can I do to comfort thee ? " she 


From the gulf-stream of passion in the ■ 


cried. 


soul ; 


At first the silent lips made no reply. 


The other with her hood thrown back, 


But, moved at length by her importunate 


her hair 


cry, 


Making a golden glory in the air, 


" Give me," he answered, with imploring 


Her cheeks suffused with an auroral 


tone, 


blush, 


" Ser Federigo's falcon for my own ! " 


Her young heart singing louder than the 




thrush. 


No answer could the astonished mother 


So walked, that morn, through mingled 


make ; 


light and shade, 


How could she ask, e'en for her darling's 


Each by the other's presence lovelier 


sake, 


made, 


Such favor at a luckless lover's hand. 


Monna Giova~nna and her bosom friend. 


Well knowing that to ask was to com- 


Intent upon their errand and its end. 


mand ? 




Well knowing, what all falconers con- 


They found Ser Federigo at his toil, 


fessed. 


Like banished Adam, delving in the soil ; 


In all the land that falcon was the best, 


And when he looked and these fair 


The master's pride and passion and de- 


women spied. 


light, 


The garden suddenly was glorified ; 


And the sole pursuivant of this poor 


His long-lost Eden was restored again, 


knight. 


And the strange river winding through 


But yet, for her child's sake, she could no 


the plain 


less 


No longer was the Arno to his eyes. 


Than give assent, to soothe his restless- 


But the Euphrates watering Paradise ! 


ness, 
So promised, and then promising to keep 


Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, 


Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. 


And with fair words of salutation said : 




" Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, 


The morrow was a bright September 


Hoping in this to make some poor 


morn ; 


amends 


The earth was beautiful as if new-bom ; 


For past unkindness. I who ne'er before 


There was that nameless splendor every- 


Would even cross the threshold of your 


where. 


door. 


That wild exhilaration in the air, 


I who in happier days such pride main- 


Which makes the passers in the city 


tained. 


street 


Refused your banquets, and your gifts 


Congratulate each other as they meet. 


disdained. 


Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and 


This morning come, a self-invited guest, 


hood. 


To put your generous nature to the test. 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 



437 



And breakfast with you under your own 

vine." 
To which he answered : " Poor desert of 

mine, 
Not your unkindness call it, for if aught 


He looked about him for some means or 

way 
To keep this unexpected holiday ; 
Searched every cupboard, and then 

searched again, 




Is good in me of feeling ur of thought, 
From you it comes, and this last grace 

outweighs 
All sorrows, all regrets of other days." 

And after further compliment and talk. 
Among the dahlias in the garden walk 
He left his guests ; and to his cottage 

turned. 
And as he entered for a moment yearned 
For the lost splendors of the days of 

old. 
The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, 
And felt how piercing is the sting of 

pride. 
By want embittered and intensified. 



Summoned the maid, who came, but 

came in vain : 
" The Signor did not hunt to-day," she 

said, 
" There's nothing in the house but wine 

and bread." 

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 
His little bells, with that sagacious 

look. 
Which said, as plain as language to the 

ear, 
" If anything is wanting, I am here ! " 
Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird ! 
The master seized thee without further 

word. 



438 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



Like thine own lure, he whirled thee 


Ser Federigo, would not these sufiice 


round ; ah me ! 


Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves 


The pomp and flutter of brave fal- 


and spice ? 


conry, 




The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet 


When all was ready, and the courtly 


hood. 


dame 


The flight and the pursuit o'er field and 


With her companion to the cottage 


wood. 


came. 


All these forevermore are ended now ; 


Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell 


No longer victor, but the victim thou ! 


The wild enchantment of a magic spell ! 




Then on the board a snow-white cloth he 
spread. 

Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of 
bread. 

Brought purple grapes with autumn sun- 
shine hot. 

The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot ; 

Then in the midst a flask of wine he 
placed, 

And with autumnal flowers the banquet 
graced. 



The room they entered, mean and low 
and small. 

Was changed into a sumptuous banquet- 
hall. 

With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown ; 

The rustic chair she sat on was a throne ; 

He ate celestial food, and a divine 

Flavor was given to his country wine. 

And the poor falcon, fragrant with his 
spice, 

A peacock was, or bird of paradise ! 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDEKIGO. 



439 



When the repast was ended, they arose 

And passed again into the garden-close. 

Then said the lady, " Far too well I 
know. 

Remembering still the days of long ago, 

Though you betray it not, with what sur- 
prise 

You see me here in this familiar wise. 

You have no children, and you cannot 
guess 



Which if you find it in your heart to 

give. 
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may 

live." 

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, 
With tears of love and pity in his eyes : 
" Alas, dear lady ! there can be no task 
So sweet to me, as giving when you asL 
One little hour ago, if I had known 




What anguish, what unspeakable dis- 
tress 

A mother feels, whose child is lying 
ill. 

Nor how her heart anticipates his will. 

And yet for this, you see me lay aside 

All womanly reserve and check of pride. 

And ask the thing most precious in your 
sight, 

Your falcon, your sole comfort and de- 
light, 



This wish of yours, it would have beer 

my own. 
But thinking in what manner I could 

best 
Do honor to the presence of my guest, 
I deemed that nothing worthier could be 
Than what most dear and precious was 

to me. 
And so my gallant falcon breathed his 

last 
To furnish forth this morninc our repast.'" 



440 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, 
The gentle lady turned her eyes away, 
Grieving that he such sacrifice should 

make. 
And kill his falcon for a woman's sake. 
Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, 
That nothing she could ask for was 

denied ; 
Then took her leave, and passed out at 

the gate 
With footstep slow and soul disconso- 
late. 

Three days went by, and lo ! a passing- 
bell 
Tolled from the little chapel in the dell ; 
Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and 

said, 
Breathing a prayer, "Alas ! her child is 

dead ! " 
Three months went by ; and lo ! a 

merrier chime 
Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas- 
time ; 
The cottage was deserted, and no more 
Ser Federigo sat beside its door, 
But now, with servitors to do his will. 
In the grand villa, half-way up the hill. 
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side 
Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride. 
Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair. 
Enthroned once more in the old rustic 

chair, 
High-perched upon the back of which 

there stood 
The image of a falcon carved in wood. 
And underneath the inscription, with a 

date, 
" All things come round to him who will 
but wait." 



INTERLUDE. 

Soon as the story reached its end, 
One, over eager to commend. 
Crowned it with injudicious praise ; 
And then the voice of blame found vent, 
And fanned the embers of dissent 
Into a somewhat lively blaze. 

The Theologian shook his head ; 
" These old Italian tales," he said. 



" From the much-praised Decameron 

down 
Through all the rabble of the rest, 
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd ; 
The gossip of a neighborhood 
In some remote provincial town, 
A scandalous chronicle at best ! 
They seem to me a stagnant fen. 
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 
Where a white lily, now and then. 
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds 
And deadly nightshade on its banks." 

To this the Student straight replied, 

" For the white lily, many thanks ! 

One should not say, with too much 

pride. 
Fountain, I will not drink of thee ! 
Nor were it grateful to forget, 
That from these reservoirs and tanks 
Even imperial Shakespeare drew 
His Moor of Venice, and the Jew, 
And Romeo and Juliet, 
And many a famous comedy." 

Then a long pause ; till some one said, 
" An Angel is flying overhead ! " 
At these words spake the Spanish Jew, 
And murmured with an inward breath ; 
" God grant, if what you say be true. 
It may not be the Angel of Death ! " 

And then another pause ; and then. 

Stroking his beard, he said again : 

" This brings back to my memory 

A story in the Talmud told. 

That book of gems, that book of gold. 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often comes to me, 

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain. 

And never wearies nor grows old." 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TAEE. 

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 

Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read 
A volume of the Law, in which it said, 
" No man shall look upon my face and 

live." 
And as he read, he prayed that God 

would give 



THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. 



441 



His faithful servant grace with mortal 

eye 
To look upon His face and yet not die. 

Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, 
And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim with 
age. 



When thou must die ; yet first, by God's 

decree, 
Whate'er thou askest shall be granted 

thee." 
Replied the Rabbi, " Let these living 

eyes 
First look upon my ]ilace in Paradise." 




He saw the Angel of Death before him 

stand, 
Holding a naked sword in his right hand. 
Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, 
Yet through his veins a chill of terror ran. 
With trembling voice he said, " What 

wilt thou here "i " 
The Angel answered, " Lo ! the time 

draws near 



Then said the Angel, " Come with me 

and look." 
Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book, 
And rising, and uplifting his gray head, 
" Give me thy sword," he to the Ani;el 

said, 
"Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the 

way." 
The Angel smiled and hastened to obey. 



442 TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 


Then led him forth to the Celestial Town, 


No human eye shall look on it again ; 


And set him on the wall, whence, gazing 


But when thou takest away the souls of 


down, 


men, 


Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes. 


Thyself unseen, and with an unseen 


Might look upon his place in Paradise. 


sword. 




Thou wilt perform the bidding of the 


Then straight into the city of the Lord 


Lord." 


The Rabbi leaped with the Death - 


The Angel took the sword again, and 


Angel's sword, 


swore. 


And through the streets there swept a 


And walks on earth unseen forevermore. 


sudden breath 




Of something there unknown, which men 




call death. 


INTERLUDE. 


Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and 




cried. 


He ended : and a kind of spell 


"Come back! " To which the Rabbi's 


Upon the silent listeners fell. 


voice replied, 


His solemn manner and his words 


" No ! in the name of God, whom I 


Had touched the deep, mysterious chords, 


adore. 


That vibrate in each human breast 


T swear that hence I will depart no 


Alike, but not alike confessed. 


more ! " 


The spiritual world seemed near ; 




And close above them, full of fear, 


Then all the Angels cried, " O Holy 


Its awful adumbration passed, 


One, 


A luminous shadow, vague and vast. 


See what the son of Levi here hath done ! 


They almost feared to look, lest there, 


The kingdom of Heaven he takes by 


Embodied from the impalpable air, 


violence, 


They might behold the Angel stand, 


And in Thy name refuses to go hence ! " 


Holding the sword in his right hand. 


The Lord replied, " My Angels, be not 




wroth ; 


At last, but in a voice subdued. 


Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath ? 


Not to disturb their dreamy mood. 


Let him remain ; for he with mortal eye 


Said the Sicilian : " While you spoke, 


Shall look upon my face and yet not die." 


Telling your legend marvellous. 




Suddenly in my memory woke 


Beyond the outer wall the Angel of 


The thought of one, now gone from us, — 


Death 


An old Abate, meek and mild, 


Heard the great voice, and said, with 


My friend and teacher, when a child. 


panting breath. 


Who sometimes in those days of old 


" Give back the sword, and let me go my 


The legend of an Angel told, 


way." 


Which ran, as I remember, tl.us." 


Whereat the Rabbi paused, and an- 




swered, " Nay ! 




Anguish enough already has it caused 


THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 


Among the sons of men." And while he 




paused 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


He heard the awful mandate of the Lord 




Resounding through the air, " Give back 


Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Ur- 


the sword ! " 


bane 




And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 


The Rabbi bowed his head in silent 


Apparelled in magnificent attire. 


prayer ; 


With retinue of many a knight and 


Then said he to the dreadful Angel, 


squire. 


" Swear, 


On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 



443 



And heard the priests chant the Mag- 
nificat. 
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 
Repeated, Hke a burden or refrain, 
He caught the words, " Deposuit potentes 
De sede, et exaltavit /mm ties ; " 
And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 
He to a learned clerk beside him said, 
" What mean these words ? " The clerk 

made answer meet, 
" He has put down the mighty from their 

seat. 
And has exalted them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scorn- 
fully, 
" 'T is well that such seditious words are 

sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 
For unto priests and people be it known, 
There is no power can push me from my 

throne ! " 
And leaning back, he yawned, and fell 

asleep. 
Lulled by the chant monotonous and 
deep. 

When he awoke it was already night ; 
The church was empty, and there was no 

light. 
Save where the lamps, that glimmered 

few and faint. 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 
He started from his seat and gazed around. 
But saw no living thing and heard no 

sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it was 

locked ; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then 

knocked. 
And uttered awful threatenings and com- 
plaints. 
And imprecations upon men and saints. 
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and 

walls 
As if dead priests were laughing in their 

stalls. 

At length the sexton, hearing from with- 
out 

The tumult of the knocking and the 
shout. 

And thinking thieves were in the house 
of prayer. 



Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is 

there ? " 
Half choked with rage. King Robert 

fiercely said, 
" Open : 't is I, the King ! Art thou 

afraid ? " 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a 

curse, 
" This is some drunken vagabond, or 

worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the por- 
tal wide ; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride. 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or 

cloak. 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, 

nor spoke. 
But leaped into the blackness of the 

night. 
And vanished like a spectre from his 

sight. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

And Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, 

Despoiled of his magnificent attire. 

Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent 
with mire. 

With sense of wrong and outrage des- 
perate 

Strode on and thundered at the palace 
gate; 

Rushed through the court-yard, thrust- 
ing in his rage 

To right and left each seneschal and page, 

And hurried up the broad and sounding 
stair. 

His white face ghastly in the torches' 
glare. 

From hall to hall he passed with breath- 
less speed ; 

Voices and cries he heard, but did not 
heed. 

Until at last he reached the banquet- 
room. 

Blazing with light, and breathing with 
perfume. 

There on the dais sat another king. 

Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet- 
ring. 

King Robert's self in features, form, and 
height. 

But M transfigured with angelic light J 



444 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



It was an Angel ; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
Though none the hidden Angel recog- 



A moment speechless, motionless, 

amazed, 
The throneless monarch on the Angel 

gazed. 
Who met his look of anger and surprise 
With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 
Then said, " Who art thou ? and why 

com'st thou here ? " 
To which King Robert answered, with a 

sneer, 
" I am the King, and come to claim my 

own 
From an impostor, who usurps my 

throne ! " 
And suddenly, at these audacious words. 
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew 

their swords ; 
The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 
" Nay, not the King, but the King's 

Jester, thou 
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scal- 
loped cape, 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they 

call, 
And wait upon my henchmen in the 

hall ! " 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries 
and prayers, 

They thrust him from the hall and down 
the stairs ; 

A group of tittering pages ran before, 

And as they opened wide the folding- 
door. 

His heart failed, for he heard, with 
strange alarms. 

The boisterous laughter of the men-at- 
arms. 

And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 

With the mock plaudits of " Long live 
the King ! " 

Next morning, waking with the day's 

first beam, 
He said within himself, " It was a 

dream ! " 



But the straw rustled as he turned his 

head. 
There were the cap and bells beside his 

bed. 
Around him rose the bare, discolored 

walls. 
Close by, the steeds were champing in 

their stalls. 
And in the corner, a revolting shape. 
Shivering and chattering sat the wretched 

ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so 

much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his 

touch ! 

Days came and went ; and now returned 

again 
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 
Under the Angel's governance benign 
The happy island danced with corn and 

wine. 
And deep within the mountain's burning 

breast 
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his 

fate. 
Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 
Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters 

wear, 
With look bewildered and a vacant stare. 
Close shaven above the ears, as monks 

are shorn. 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to 

scorn. 
His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsub- 
dued. 
And when the Angel met him on his way. 
And half in earnest, half in jest, would 

say. 
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might 

feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of 

steel, 
" Art thou the King ? " the passion of his 

woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow. 
And, lifting high his forehead, he would 

fling 
The haughty answer back, " I am, I am 

the King ! " 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 



445 



Almost three years were ended ; when 

there came 
Ambassadors of great repute and name 
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope 

Urbane 
By letter summoned them forthwith to 

come 
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 
The Angel with great joy received his 

guests, 
And gave them presents of embroidered 

vests, 
And velvet mantles with rich ermine 

lined. 
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 
Then he departed with them o'er the sea 
Into the lovely land of Italy, 
Whose loveliness was more resplendent 

made 
By the mere passing of that cavalcade. 
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, 

and the stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 

And lo ! among the menials, in mock 
state, 

Upon a piebald steed, with shambling 
gait, 

His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the 
wind, 

The solemn ape demurely perched be- 
hind. 

King Robert rode, making huge merri- 
ment 

In all the country towns through which 
they went. 

The Pope received them with great pomp 

and blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's 

square. 
Giving his benediction and embrace. 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with 

prayers 
He entertained the Angel unawares, 
Robert, the Jester, bursting through the 

crowd. 
Into their presence rushed, and cried 

aloud, 
" I am the King ! Look, and behold in 

me 



Robert, your brother. King of Sicily ! 

This man, who wears my semblance to 
your eyes. 

Is an imposter in a king's disguise. 

Do you not know me ? does no voice 
within 

Answer my cry, and say we are akin ? " 

The Pope in silence, but with troubled 
mien, 

Gazed at the Angel's countenance se- 
rene ; 

The Emperor, laughing, said, " It is 
strange sport 

To keep a madman for thy Fool at 
court ! " 

And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 

Was hustled back among the populace. 

In solemn state the Holy Week went 

by, 

And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the 

sky; 
The presence of the Angel, with its light, 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 
And with new fervor filled the hearts of 

men. 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen 

again. 
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw. 
With haggard eyes the unwonted splen- 
dor saw, 
He felt within a power unfelt before, 
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber 

floor. 
He heard the rushing garments of the 

Lord 
Sweep through the silent air, ascending 

heavenward. 

And now the visit ending, and once 

more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's 

shore, 
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and 

again 
The land was made resplendent with his 

train 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's 

wall 
And, seated on the throne in his great 

hall. 



446 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



He heard the Angelus from convent 


The Angel smiled, and from his radiant 


towers, 


face 


As if the better world conversed with 


A holy light illumined all the place. 


ours, 


And through the open window, loud and 


He beckoned to King Robert to draw 


clear. 


nigher, 


They heard the monks chant in the 


And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 


chapel near, 


And when they were alone, the Angel 


Above the stir and tumult of the street : 


said. 


" He has put down the mighty from their 


" Art thou the King ? " Then, bowing 


seat. 


down his head, 


And has exalted them of low degree ! " 




King Robert crossed both hands upon his 
breast. 

And meekly answered him : " Thou 
knowest best ! 

My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 

And in some cloister's school of peni- 
tence, 

Across those stones, that pave the way to 
heaven, 

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be 
shriven ! " 



And through the chant a second melody 
Rose like the throbbing of a single string : 
" I am an Angel, and thou art the 
King ! " 

King Robert, who was standing near the 

throne. 
Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 
But all apparelled as in days of old. 
With ermined mantle and with cloth of 

gold; 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



447 



And when his courtiers came, they found 


This is my hammer, 


him there 


Miolner the mighty ; 


Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in si- 


Giants and sorcerers 


lent prayer. 


Cannot withstand it ! 




These are the gauntlets 


INTERLUDE. 


Wherewith I wield it, 




And hurl it afar off; 


And then the blue-eyed Norseman told 


This is my girdle ; 


A Saga of the days of old. 


Whenever I brace it. 


" There is," said he, " a wondrous book 


Strength is redoubled ! 


Of Legends in the old Norse tongue, 




Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 


The light thou beholdest 


Legends that once were told or sung 


Stream through the heavens. 


In many a smoky fireside nook 


In flashes of crimson. 


Of Iceland, in the ancient day, 


Is but my red beard 


By wandering Saga-man or Scald ; 


Blown by the night-wind, 


Heimskringla is the volume called ; 


Affrighting the nations ! 


And he who looks may find therein 




The story that I now begin." 


Jove is my brother ; 




Mine eyes are the lightning ; 


And in each pause the story made 


The wheels of my chariot 


Upon his violin he played. 


Roll in the thunder, 


As an appropriate interlude, 


The blows of my hammer 


Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 


Ring in the earthquake I 


That bound in one the separate runes, 




And held the mind in perfect mood, 


Force rules the world still, 


Entwining and encircling all 


Has ruled it, shall rule it ; 


The strange and antiquated rhymes 


Meekness is weakness, 


With melodies of olden times ; 


Strength is triumphant, 


As over some half-ruined wall 


Over the whole earth 


Disjointed and about to fall, 


Still is it Thor's-Day ! 


Fresh woodbines climb and interlace. 




And keep the loosened stones in place. 


Thou art a God too. 




O Galilean ! 




And thus single-handed 


THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 


Unto the combat, 




Gauntlet or Gospel, 


THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 


Here I defy thee ! 

IL 


THE CHALLENGE OF THOR. 


KING OLAF'S return. 


I AM the God Thor, 


And King Olaf heard the cry. 


I am the War God, 


Saw the red light in the sky. 


I am the Thunderer ! 


Laid his hand upon his sword, 


Here in my Northland, 


As he leaned upon the railing. 


My fastness and fortress. 


And his ships went sailing, sailing 


Reign I forever ! 


Northward into Drontheim fiord. 


Here amid icebergs 


There he stood as one who dreamed ; 


Rule I the nations ; 


And the red light glanced and gleamed 



448 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



On the armor that he wore ; 


Trained for either camp or court, 


And he shouted, as the rifted 


Skilful in each manly sport. 


Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 


Young and beautiful and tall ; 


" I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 


Art of warfare, craft of chases. 




Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races, 


To avenge his father slain, 


Excellent alike in all. 


And reconquer realm and reign. 




Came the youthful Olaf home, 


When at sea, with all his rowers, 


Through the midnight sailing, sailing, 


He along the bending oars 


Listening to the wild wind's wailing. 


Outside of his ship could run. 


And the dashing of the foam. 


He the Smalsor Horn ascended, 




And his shining shield suspended 


To his thoughts the sacred name 


On its summit, like a sun. 


Of his mother Astrid came. 




And the tale she oft had told 


On the ship-rails he could stand. 


Of her flight by secret passes 


Wield his sword with either hand. 


Through the mountains and morasses, 


And at once two javelins throw ; 


To the home of Hakon old. 


At all feasts where ale was strongest 




Sat the merry monarch longest, 


Then strange memories crowded back 


First to come and last to go. 


Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack. 




And a hurried flight by sea ; 


Norway never yet had seen 


Of grim Vikings, and the rapture 


One so beautiful of mien, 


Of the sea-fight, and the capture. 


One so royal in attire 


And the life of slavery. 


When in arms completely furnished, 




Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 


How a stranger watched his face 


Mantle like a flame of fire. 


In the Esthonian market-place, 




Scanned his features one by one, 


Thus came Olaf to his own. 


Saying, " We should know each other ; 


When upon the night-wind blown 


I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother. 


Passed that cry along the shore ; 


Thou art Olaf, Astrid's son ! 


And he answered, while the rifted 




Streamers o'er him shook and shifted, 


Then as Queen Allogia's page, 


" I accept thy challenge, Thor ! " 


Old in honors, young in age, 




Chief of all her men-at-arms ; 


III. 


Till vague whispers, and mysterious, 




Reached King Valdemar, the imperious, 


THORA OF RIMOL. 


Filling him with strange alarms. 






" Thora of Rimol ! hide me ! hide me ! 


Then his cruisings o'er the seas. 


Danger and shame and death betide me I 


Westward to the Hebrides, 


For Olaf the King is hunting me down 


And to Scilly's rocky shore ; 


Through field and forest, through thorjj 


And the hermit's cavern dismal. 


and town ! " 


Christ's great name and rites baptismal 


Thus cried Jarl Hakon 


In the ocean's rush and roar. 


To Thora, the fairest of women. 


All these thoughts of love and strife 


" Hakon Jarl ! for the love I bear thee 


Glimmered through his lurid life, 


Neither shall shame nor death come neai 


As the stars' intenser light 


thee! 


Through the red flames o'er him trailing, 


But the hiding-place wherein thou must lie 


As his ships went sailing, sailing, 


Is the cave underneath the swine in the 


Northward in the summer night. 


sty." 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



449 



Thus to Jarl Hakon 


At Nidarholm the priests are all singing. 


Said Thora, the fairest of women. 


Two ghastly heads on the gibbet are 




swinging ; 


So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall Karker 


One is Jarl Hakon's and one is his 


Crouched in the cave, than a dungeon 


thrall's. 


darker, 


And the people are shouting from win- 


As Olaf came riding, with men in mail, 


dows and walls ; 


Through the forest roads into Orka- 


While alone in her chamber 


dale, 


Swoons Thora, the fairest of women. 


Demanding Jarl Hakon 




Of Thora the fairest of women. 


IV. 


" Rich and honored shall be whoever 


QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. 


The head of Hakon Jarl shall dissever ! " 




Hakon heard him, and Karker the 


Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud 


slave, 


and aloft 


Through the breathing-holes of the 


In her chamber, that looked over mead- 


darksome cave. 


ow and croft. 


Alone in her chamber 


Heart's dearest. 


Wept Thora, the fairest of women. 


Why dost thou sorrow so ? 


Said Karker, the crafty, " I will not slay 


The floor with tassels of fir was besprent, 


thee! 


Filling the room with their fragrant scent. 


For all the king's gold I will never betray 




thee ! " 


She heard the birds sing, she saw the 


" Then why dost thou turn so pale, O 


sun shine, 


churl, 


The air of summer was sweeter than 


And then again black as the earth ? " 


wine. 


said the Earl. 




More pale and more faithful 


Like a sword without scabbard the bright 


Was Thora, the fairest of women. 


river lay 




Between her own kingdom and Norro- 


From a dream in the night the thrall 


way. 


started, saying, 




" Round my neck a gold ring King Olaf 


But Olaf the King had sued for her hand, 


was laying ! " 


The sword would be sheathed, the river 


And Hakon answered, " Beware of the 


be spanned. 


king ! 




He will lay round thy neck a blood-red 


Her maidens were seated around her 


ring." 


knee, 


At the ring on her finger 


Working bright figures in tapestry. 


Gazed Thora, the fairest of women. 






And one was singing the ancient rune 


At daybreak slept Hakon, with sorrows 


Of Brynhilda's love and the wrath of 


encumbered. 


Gudrun. 


But screamed and drew up his feet as he 




slumbered ; 


And through it, and round it, and over it 


The thrall in the darkness plunged with 


all 


his knife, 


Sounded incessant the waterfall. 


And the Earl awakened no more in this 




life. 


The Queen in her hand held a ring of 


But wakeful and weeping 


gold. 


Sat Thora, the fairest of women. 


From the door of Lade's Temple old. 



29 



45 o TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


King Olaf had sent her this wedding 


" Why, then, should I care to have 


gift, 


thee ? " he said, — 


But her thoughts as arrows were keen 


"A faded old woman, a heathenish 


and swift. 


jade ! " 


She had given the ring to her goldsmiths 


His zeal was stronger than fear or 


twain, 


love. 


Who smiled, as they handed it back 


And he struck the Queen in the face with 


again. 


his glove. 


And Sigrid the Queen, in her haughty 


Then forth from the chamber in anger he 


way. 


fled. 


Said, "Why do you smile, my gold- 


And the wooden stairway shook with his 


smiths, say ? " 


tread. 


And they answered : " Queen ! if the 


Queen Sigrid the Haughty said under 


truth must be told. 


her breath. 


The ring is of copper, and not of gold ! " 


"This insult, King Olaf, shall be thy 




death ! " 


The lightning flashed o'er her forehead 


Heart's dearest, 


and cheek, 


Why dost thou sorrow so .'' 


She only murmured, she did not speak : 




" If in his gifts he can faithless be, 


V, 


There will be no gold in his love to me." 


THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS. 


A footstep was heard on the outer stair. 


Now from all King Olaf 's farms 


And in strode King Olaf with royal air. 


His men-at-arms 




Gathered on the Eve of Easter ; 


He kissed the Queen's hand, and he 


To his house at Angvalds-ness 


whispered of love, 


Fast they press. 


And swore to be true as the stars are 


Drinking with the royal feaster. 


above. 






Loudly through the wide-flung door 


But she smiled with contempt as she 


Came the roar 


answered : " O King, 


Of the sea upon the Skerry ; 


Will you swear it, as Odin once swore, 


And its thunder loud and near 


on the ring 1 " 


Reached the ear. 




Mingling with their voices merry. 


And the King : " O speak not of Odin to 




me, 


" Hark ! " said Olaf to his Scald, 


The wife of King Olaf a Christian must 


Halfred the Bald, 


be." 


" Listen to that song, and learn it ! 




Half my kingdom would I give. 


Looking straight at the King, with her 


As I live. 


level brows. 


If by such songs you would earn it I 


She said, " I keep true to my faith and 




my vows." 


" For of all the runes and rhymes 




Of all times, 


Then the face of King Olaf was darkened 


Best I like the ocean's dirges, 


with gloom. 


When the old harper heaves and rocks, 


He rose in his anger and strode through 


His hoary locks 


the room. 


Flowing and flashing in the surges ! " 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



451 



Halfred answered : " I am called 

The Unappalled ! 
Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, O King, 

While I sing 
The great Ocean Song that haunts 



" I will hear your song sublime 

Some other time," 
Says the drowsy monarch, yawning, 
And retires ; each laughing guest 



Round and round the house they go, 

Weaving slow 
Magic circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 

Olaf the King, 
As he helpless lies in slumber. 

Then athwart the vapors dun 

The Easter sun 
Streamed with one broad track of splen- 
dor ! 
In their real forms appeared 




Applauds the jest ; 
Then they sleep till day is dawning. 

Pacing up and down the yard, 

King Olaf 's guard 
Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O'er the sands, and up the hill. 

Gathering still 
Round the house where they were sleep- 
ing. 

It was not the fog he saw. 

Nor misty flaw. 
That above the landscape brooded ; 
It was Eyvind Kallda's crew 

Of warlocks blue 
With their caps of darkness hooded ! 



The warlocks weird. 
Awful as the Witch of Endor. 

Blinded by the light that glared, 

They groped and stared 
Round about with steps unsteady ; 
From his window Olaf gazed, 

And, amazed, 
" Who are these strange people ? " said 
he. 

" Eyvind Kallda and his men ! " 

Answered then 
From the yard a sturdy farmer ; 
While the men-at-arms apace 

Filled the place. 
Busily buckling on their armor. 



452 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



From the gates they sallied forth, 

South and north, 
Scoured the island coast around them, 
Seizing all the warlock band. 

Foot and hand 
On the Skerry's rocks they bound them. 

And at eve the king again 

Called his train, 
And, with all the candles burning, 
Silent sat and heard once more 

The sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 

Shrieks and cries of wild despair 

Filled the air. 
Growing fainter as they listened ; 
Then the bursting surge alone 

Sounded on ; — 
Thus the sorcerers were christened ! 

" Sing, O Scald, your song subhme. 

Your ocean-rhyme," 
Cried King Olaf : " it will cheer me ! " 
Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, 

" The Skerry of Shrieks 
Sings too loud for you to hear me ! " 

VI. 

THE WRAITH OF ODIN. 

The guests were loud, the ale was strong. 
King Olaf feasted late and long ; 
The hoary Scalds together sang ; 
O'erhead the smoky rafters rang, 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The door swung wide, with creak and 

din ; 
A blast of cold night-air came in. 
And on the threshold shivering stood 
A one-eyed guest, with cloak and hood. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King exclaimed, " O graybeard pale ! 
Come warm thee with this cup of ale." 
The foaming draught the old man quaffed. 
The noisy guests looked on and laughed. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then spake the King : " Be not afraid ; 
Sit here by me." The guest obeyed, 



And, seated at the table, told 
Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

And ever, when the tale was o'er. 
The King demanded yet one more ; 
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling said, 
" 'T is late, O King, and time for bed." 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The King retired ; the stranger guest 
Followed and entered with the rest ; 
The lights were out, the pages gone, 
But still the garrulous guest spake on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

As one who from a volume reads. 
He spake of heroes and their deeds. 
Of lands and cities he had seen. 
And stormy gulfs that tossed between. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old. 
With sounds mysterious as the roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

" Do we not learn from runes and rhymes 
Made by the gods in elder times, 
And do not still the great Scalds teach 
That silence better is than speech ? " 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

Smiling at this, the King replied, 
" Thy lore is by thy tongue belied ; 
For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga-man or Scald." 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

The Bishop said, " Late hours we keep ! 
Night wanes, O King ! 't is time for 

sleep ! " 
Then slept the King, and when he 

woke 
The guest was gone, the morning broke. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 

They found the doors securely barred, 
They found the watch- dog in the yard. 
There was no footprint in the grass. 
And none had seen the stranger pass. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fogelsang. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



453 



King Olaf crossed himself and said : 


Huge and cumbersome was his frame ; 


" I know that Odin the Great is dead ; 


His beard, from which he took his 


Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 


name, 


The one-eyed stranger was his wraith." 


Frosty and fierce, like that of Hymer the 


Dead rides Sir iVIorten of Fogelsang. 


Giant. 


VII. 


So at the Hus-Ting he appeared. 




The farmer of Yriar, Iron-Beard, 


IRON-BEARD. 


On horseback, in an attitude defiant. 


OuvF the King, one summer morn, 


And to King Olaf he cried aloud, 


Blew a blast on his bugle-horn. 


Out of the middle of the crowd, 


Sending his signal through the land of 


That tossed about him like a stormy 


Drontheim. 


ocean : 


And to the Hus-Ting held at Mere 


" Such sacrifices shalt thou bring : 


Gathered the farmers far and near, 


To Odin and to Thor, O King, 


With their war weapons ready to con- 


As other kings have done in their devo- 


front him. 


tion ! " 


Ploughing under the morning star, 


King Olaf answered : " I command 


Old Iron-Beard in Yriar, 


This land to be a Christian land ; 


Heard the summons, chuckling with a 


Here is my Bishop who the folk baptizes ! 


low laugh. 






" But if you ask me to restore 


He wiped the sweat-drops from his 


Your sacrifices, stained with gore. 


brow, 


Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 


Unharnessed his horses from the 




plough. 


" Not slaves and peasants shall they 


And clattering came on horseback to 


be. 


King Olaf. 


But men of note and high degree. 




Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar of 


He was the churliest of the churls ; 


Gi7ting ! " 


Little he cared for king or earls ; 




Bitter as home-brewed ale were his foam- 


Then to their Temple strode he in. 


ing passions. 


And loud behind him heard the din 




Of his men-at-arms and the peasants 


Hodden-gray was the garb he wore. 


fiercely fighting. 


And by the Hammer of Thor he 




swore ; 


There in the Temple, carved in 


He hated the narrow town, and all its 


wood. 


fashions. 


The image of great Odin stood. 




And other gods, with Thor supreme 


But he loved the freedom of his farm, 


among them. 


His ale at night, by the fireside 




warm. 


King Olaf smote them with the blade 


Gudrun his daughter, with her flaxen 


Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaid. 


tresses. 


And downward shattered to the pave- 




ment flung them. 


He loved his horses and his herds. 




The smell of the earth, and the song 


At the same moment rose without. 


of birds. 


From the contending crowd, a shout, 


His well filled barns, his brook with its 


A mingled sound of triumph and of wail- 


water-cresses. 


ing. 



454 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



And there upon the trampled plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and the 
assailing. 



And seeing their leader stark and 

dead, 
The people with a murmur said, 
" O King, baptize us with thy holy water ; " 




King Olaf from the doorway spoke : 
" Choose ye between two "things, my 
folk, 
To be baptized or given up to slaugh- 
ter ! " 



So all the Drontheim land be- 
came 

A Christian land in name and fame, 
In the old gods no more believing and 
trusting. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



455 



And as a blood-atonement, soon 
King Olaf wed the fair Gudrun ; 
And thus in peace ended the Drontheim 
Hus-Ting ! 



On the cairn are fixed her eyes 
Where her murdered father lies, 
And a voice remote and drear 
She seems to hear. 




GUDRUN. 

On King Olaf 's bridal night 
Shines the moon with tender light, 
And across the chamber streams 
Its tide of dreams. 

At the fatal midnight hour, 
When all evil things have power, 
In the glimmer of the moon 
Stands Gudrun. 

Close against her heaving breast. 
Something in her hand is pressed ; 
Like an icicle, its sheen 
Is cold and keen. 



What a bridal night is this ! 
Cold will be the dagger's kiss ; 
Laden with the chill of death 
Is its breath. 

Like the drifting snow she sweeps 
To the couch where Olaf sleeps ; 
Suddenly he wakes and stirs, 
His eyes meet hers. 

" What is that," King Olaf said, 
" Gleams so bright above thy liead ? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight ? " 

" 'T is the bodkin that I weai 
When at night I bind my hair ; 



456 



TALES OF A WAYS/DE INN. 



It woke me falling on the floor ; 


Nor the songs they used write. 


'T is nothing more." 


" All this rhyme 




Is waste of time ! " 


"Forests have ears, and fields have 


Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf 's Priest. 


eyes ; 




Often treachery lurking lies 


To the alehouse, where he sat. 


Underneath the fairest hair ! 


Came the Scalds and Saga-men ; 


Gudrun beware ! " 


Is it to be wondered at, 




That they quarrelled now and then, 


Ere the earliest peep of morn 


When o'er his beer 


Blew King Olaf 's bugle-horn ; 


Began to leer 


And forever sundered ride 


Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf 's Priest ? 


Bridegroom and bride ! 






All the folk in Altafiord 


IX. 


Boasted of their island grand ; 




Saying in a single word, 


THANGBRAND THE PRIEST. 


" Iceland is the finest land 




That the sun 


Short of stature, large of limb, 


Doth shine upon ! " 


Burly face and russet beard, 


Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest 


All the women stared at him, 




When in Iceland he appeared. 


And he answered : " What 's the use 


" Look ! " they said, 


Of this bragging up and down. 


With nodding head, 


When three women and one goose 


" There goes Thangbrand, Olaf 's Priest." 


Make a market in your town ! " 




Eveiy Scald 


All the prayers he knew by rote. 


Satires scrawled 


He could preach like Chrysostome, 


On poor Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. 


From the Fathers he could quote. 




He had even been at Rome. 


Something worse they did than that ; 


A learned clerk, 


And what vexed him most of all 


A man of mark, 


Was a figure in shovel hat, 


Was this Thangbrand, Olaf 's Priest. 


Drawn in charcoal on the wall ; 




With words that go 


He was quarrelsome and loud. 


Sprawling below. 


And impatient of control, 


" This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest." 


Boisterous in the market crowd. 




Boisterous at the wassail-bowl. 


Hardly knowing what he did. 


Everywhere 


Then he smote them might and 


Would drink and swear, 


main, 


Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf 's Priest. 


Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 




Lay there in the alehouse slain. 


In his house this malcontent 


" To-day we are gold. 


Could the King no longer bear. 


To-morrow mould ! " 


So to Iceland he was sent 


Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest 


To convert the heathen there. 




And away 


Much in fear of axe and rope. 


One summer day 


Back to Norway sailed he then, 


Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf 's Priest. 


" 0, King Olaf ! little hope 




Is there of these Iceland men ! " 


There in Iceland, o'er their books 


Meekly said. 


Pored the people day and night. 


With bending head, 


But he did not like their looks, 


Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 457 


X. 


And along the Salten Fiord 




Preach the Gospel with my sword. 


RAUD THE STRONG. 


Or be brought back in my shroud ! " 




So northward from Drontheim 


" All the old gods are dead, 


Sailed King Olaf ! 


All the wild warlocks fled ; 




But the White Christ lives and reigns, 


XL 


And throughout my wide domains 




His Gospel shall be spread ! " 


BISHOP SIGURD AT SALTEN FIORD. 


On the Evangelists 




Thus swore King Olaf. 


Loud the angry wind was wailing 




As King Olaf 's ships came saihng 


But still in dreams of the night 


Northward out of Drontheim haven 


Beheld he the crimson light, 


To the mouth of Salten Fiord. 


And heard the voice that defied 




Him who was crucified, 


Though the flying sea-spray drenches 


And challenged him to the fight. 


Fore and aft the rowers' benches. 


To Sigurd the Bishop 


Not a single heart is craven 


King Olaf confessed it. 


Of the champions there on board. 


And Sigurd the Bishop said, 


All without the Fiord was quiet. 


" The old gods are not dead, 


But within it storm and riot. 


For the great Thor still reigns, 


Such as on his Viking cruises 


And among the Jarls and Thanes 


Raud the Strong was wont to ride. 


The old witchcraft still is spread." 




Thus to King Olaf 


And the sea through all its tide-ways 


Said Sigurd the Bishop. 


Swept the reeling vessels sideways. 




As the leaves are swept through sluices, 


" Far north in the Salten Fiord, 


When the flood-gates open wide. 


By rapine, fire, and sword, 




Lives the Viking, Raud the Strong ; 


" 'T is the warlock ! 't is the demon 


All the Godoe Isles belong 


Raud ! " cried Sigurd to the seamen ; 


To him and his heathen horde." 


" But the Lord is not aff'righted 


Thus went on speaking 


By the witchcraft of his foes." 


Sigurd the Bishop. 






To the ship's bow he ascended, 


*' A warlock, a wizard is he. 


By his choristers attended. 


And lord of the wind and the sea ; 


Round him were the tapers lighted 


And whichever way he sails, 


And the sacred incense rose. 


He has ever favoring gales, 




By his craft in sorcery." 


On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, 


Here the sign of the cross 


In his robes, as one transfigured, 


Made devoutly King 01a£ 


And the Crucifix he planted 




High amid the rain and mist 


" With rites that we both abhor, 




He worships Odin and Thor ; 


Then with holy water sprinkled 


So it cannot yet be said. 


All the ship ; the mass-bells tinkled ; 


That all the old gods are dead. 


Loud the monks around him chanted, 


And the warlocks are no more," 


Loud he read the Evangelist 


Flushing with anger 




Said Sigurd the Bishop. 


As into the Fiord they darted. 




On each side the water parted ; 


Then King Olaf cried aloud : 


Down a path like silver molten 


" I will talk with this mighty Raiicl, 


Steadily rowed King Olaf 's ships ; 



458 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN.. 



Steadily burned all night the tapers, 


In their temples Thor and Odin 


And the White Christ through the 


Lay in dust and ashes trodden. 


vapors 


As King Olaf, onward sweeping, 


Gleamed across the Fiord of Salten, 


Preached the Gospel with his sword. 


As through John's Apocalypse, — 






Then he took the carved and gilded 


Till at last they reached Raud's dwell- 


Dragon-ship that Raud had builded. 


ing 


And the tiller single-handed 


On the little isle of Gelling ; 


Grasping, steered into the main. 


Not a guard was at the doorway. 




Not a glimmer of light was seen. 


Southward sailed the sea-gulls o'er him. 




Southward sailed the ship that bore him. 


But at anchor, carved and gilded. 


Till at Drontheim haven landed 


Lay the dragon-ship he builded ; 


Olaf and his crew again. 


'T was the grandest ship in Norway, 




With its crest and scales of green. 


XII. 


Up the stairway, softly creeping, 


KING OLAF'S CHRISTMAS. 


To the loft where Raud was sleeping. 




With their fists they burst asunder 


At Drontheim, Olaf the King 


Bolt and bar that held the door. 


Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring,. 




As he sat in his banquet-hall,. 


Drunken with sleep and ale they found 


Drinking the nut-brown ale. 


him, 


With his bearded Berserks hale 


Dragged him from his bed and bound 

him, 
While he stared with stupid wonder. 


And tall. 


Three days his Yule-tide feasts 


At the look and garb they wore. 


He held with Bishops and Priests, 




And his horn filled up to the brim ;. 


Then King Olaf said : " O Sea-King ! 


But the ale was never too strong, 


Little time have we for speaking, 


Nor the Saga-man's tale too long, 


Choose between the good and evil ; 


For him. 


Be baptized, or thou shalt die ! " 






O'er his drinking-horn, the sign 


But in scorn the heathen scoffer 


He made of the cross divine. 


Answered : " I disdain thine offer ; 


As he drank, and muttered his pray- 


Neither fear I God nor Devil ; 


ers ; 


Thee and thy Gospel I defy ! " 


But the Berserks evermore 




Made the sign of the Hammer of Thor 


Then between his jaws distended, 


Over theirs. 


When his frantic struggles ended, 




Through King Olaf 's horn an adder, 


The gleams of the fire-light dance 


Touched by fire, they forced to glide. 


Upon helmet and hauberk and lance. 




And laugh in the eyes of the King ;_ 


Sharp his tooth was as an arrow. 


And he cries to Halfred the Scald, 


As he gnawed through bone and mar- 


Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 


row ; 


" Sing ! 


But without a groan or shudder. 




Raud the Strong blaspheming died. 


" Sing me a song divine. 




With a sword in every line, 


Then baptized they all that region, 


And this shall be thy reward." 


Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 


And he loosened the belt at his waist,. 


Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 


And in front of the singer placed 


Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 


His sword. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



459 



" Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 

The millstone through and through, 
And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the Strong, 
Were neither so broad nor so long, 

Nor so true." 

Then the Scald took his harp and 

sang, 
And loud through the music rang 

The sound of that shining word ; 
And the harp-strings a clangor made. 
As if they were struck with the blade 

Of a sword. 

And the Berserks round about 
Broke forth into a shout 

That made the rafters ring : 
They smote with their fists on the 

board. 
And shouted, " Long live the Sword, 

And the King ! " 

But the King said, " O my son, 
I miss the bright word in one 

Of thy measures and thy rhymes." 
And Halfred the Scald replied, 
" In another 't was multiplied 

Three times." 

Then King Olaf raised the hilt 
Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt. 

And said, " Do not refuse ; 
Count well the gain and the loss, 
Thor's hammer or Christ's cross : 

Choose ! " 

And Halfred the Scald said, " This 
In the name of the Lord I kiss. 

Who on it was crucified ! " 
And a shout went round the board, 
" In the name of Christ the Lord, 

Who died ! " 

Then over the waste of snows 
The noonday sun uprose. 

Through the driving mists revealed, 
Like the lifting of the Host, 
By incense-clouds almost 

Concealed. 

On the shining wall a vast 
And shadowy cross was cast 



From the hilt of the lifted sword 
And in foaming cups of ale 
The Berserks drank " Was-hael ! 

To the Lord ! " 

xiir. 

THE BUILDING OF THE LONG SERPENT. 

Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 

In his ship-yard by the sea. 
Whistling, said, " It would bewilder 
Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 
Any man but me ! " 

Near him lay the Dragon stranded, 

Built of old by Raud the Strong, 
And King Olaf had commanded 
He should build another Dragon, 
Twice as large and long. 

Therefore whistled Thorberg Skafting, 
As he sat with half-closed eyes, 

And his head turned sideways, draft- 
ing 

That new vessel for King Olaf 
Twice the Dragon's size. 

Round him busily hewed and hammered 
Mallet huge and heavy axe ; 

Workmen laughed and sang and clam- 
ored ; 

Whirred the wheels, that into rigging 
Spun the shining fla.x ! 

All this tumult heard the master, — 

It was music to his ear ; 
Fancy whispered all the faster, 
" Men shall hear of Thorberg Skaft- 
ing 

For a hundred year ! " 

Workmen sweating at the forges 
Fashioned iron bolt and bar. 
Like a warlock's midnight orgies 
Smoked and bubbled the black caldron 
With the boiling tar. 

Did the warlocks mingle in it, 

Thorberg Skafting, any curse ? 
Could you not be gone a minute 
But some mischief must be doing. 
Turning bad to worse ? 



460 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



'T was an ill wind that came wafting, 

From his homestead words of woe ; 
To his farm went Thorberg Skafting, 



" Come and see my ship, my darling 1 " 

On the morrow said the King ; 
" Finished now from keel to carling ; 




Oft repeating to his workmen. 
Build ye thus and so. 

After long delays returning 

Came the master back by night ; 
To his ship-yard longing, yearning, 
Hurried he, and did not leave it 

Till the morning's light. 



Never yet was seen in Norway 
Such a wondrous thing ! " 

In the ship-yard, idly talking, 

At the ship the workmen stared : 
Some one, all their labor balking, 
Down her sides had cut deep gashes, 
Not a plank was spared ! 



THE SAGA OF KING OLA P. 



461 



" Death be to the evil-doer ! " 


Round as a swallow's nest descended ; 


With an oath King Olaf spoke ; 


As standard-bearer he defended 


" But rewards to his pursuer ! " 


Olaf'sflagin the fight 


And with wrath his face grew redder 




Than his scarlet cloak. 


Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 




Like the King in garb and face, 


Straight the master-builder, smiling, 


So gallant and so hale ; 


Answered thus the angry King : 


Every cabin-boy and varlet 


" Cease blaspheming and reviling, 


Wondered at his cloak of scarlet ; 


Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 


Like a river, frozen and star-lit, 


Who has done this thing ! " 


Gleamed his coat-of-mail. 


Then he chipped and smoothed the 


By the bulkhead, tall and dark, 


planking. 


Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, 


Till the King, delighted, swore. 


A figure gaunt and grand ; 


With much lauding and much thanking, 


On his hairy arm imprinted 


" Handsomer is now my Dragon 


Was an anchor, azure-tinted ; 


Than she was before ! " 


Like Thor's hammer, huge and dinted 




Was his brawny hand. 


Seventy ells and four extended 




On the grass the vessel's keel ; 


Einar Tamberskelver, bare 


High above it, gilt and splendid, 


To the winds his golden hair, 


Rose the figure-head ferocious 


By the mainmast stood ; 


With its crest of steel. 


Graceful was his form, and slender, 




And his eyes were deep and tender 


Then they launched her from the tressels, 


As a woman's, in the splendor 


In the ship-yard by the sea ; 


Of her maidenhood. 


She was the grandest of all vessels, 




Never ship was built in Norway 


In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 


Half so fine as she ! 


Watched the sailors at their work : 




Heavens ! how they swore ! 


The Long Serpent was she christened, 


Thirty men they each commanded, 


'Mid the roar of cheer on cheer ! 


Iron-sinewed, horny-handed, 


They who to the Saga listened 


Shoulders broad, and chests expanded, 


Heard the name of Thorberg Skafting, 


Tugging at the oar. 


For a hundred year ! 






These, and many more like these, 


XIV. 


With King Olaf sailed the seas. 




Till the waters vast 


THE CREV^r OF THE LONG SERPENT. 


Filled them with a vague devotion. 




With the freedom and the motion, 


Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay 


With the roll and roar of ocean 


King Olaf 's fleet assembled lay, 


And the sounding blast. 


And, striped with white and blue, 




Downward fluttered sail and banner. 


When they landed from the fleet, 


As alights the screaming lanner ; 


How they roared through Drontheim's 


Lustily cheered, in their wild manner, 


street. 


The Long Serpent's crew. 


Boisterous as the gale ! 




How they laughed and stamped and 


Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red ; 


pounded. 


Like a wolf's was his shaggy head. 


Till the tavern roof resounded. 


His teeth as large and white ; 


And the host looked on astounded 


His beard, of gray and russet blended. 


As they drank the ale ! 



462 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



Never saw the wild North Sea 


Has wedded her with his ring, 


Such a gallant company 
Sail its billows blue ! 
Never, while they cruised and quarrelled, 
Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tooth Harald, 


And Thyri is Queen in the land ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk. 
And flee away from each other. 


Owned a ship so well apparelled, 
Boasted such a crew ! 


XVI. 




QUEEN THYRI AND THE ANGELICA 


XV. 


STALKS. 



A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR. 

A LITTLE bird in the air 
Is singing of Thyri the fair, 

The sister of Svend the Dane ; 

And the song of the garrulous bird 

In the streets of the town is heard, 

And repeated again and again. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 

And flee away from each other. 

To King Burislaf, it is said. 
Was the beautiful Thyri wed. 

And a sorrowful bride went she ; 
And after a week and a day. 
She had fled away and away 

From his town by the stormy sea. 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

They say, that through heat and through 

cold. 
Through weald, they say, and through 
wold. 
By day and by night, they say. 
She has fled ; and the gossips report 
She has come to King Olaf 's court. 
And the town is all in dismay. 
Hoist up your sails of silk. 
And flee away from each other. 

It is whispered King Olaf has seen, 
Has talked with the beautiful Queen ; 

And they wonder how it will end ; 
For surel}', if here she remain, 
It is war with King Svend the Dane, 
And King Burislaf the Vend ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 

O, greatest wonder of all ! 

It is published in hamlet and hall. 

It roars like a flame that is fanned ! 
The King — yes, Olaf the King — 



NoRTHV^^ARD over Drontheim, 
Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, 
Sang the lark and linnet 
From the meadows green ; 

Weeping in her chamber, 
Lonely and unhappy, 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Sat King Olaf 's Queen. 

In at all the windows 
Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 
On the roof above her 
Softly cooed the dove ; 

But the sound she heard not, 
Nor the sunshine heeded, 
For the thoughts of Thyri 
Were not thoughts of love. 

Then King Olaf entered. 
Beautiful as morning. 
Like the sun at Easter 
Shone his happy face ; 

In his hand he carried 
Angelicas uprooted, 
With delicious fragrance 
Filling all the place. 

Like a rainy midnight 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Even the smile of Olaf 

Could not cheer her gloom ; 

Nor the stalks he gave her 
With a gracious gesture, 
And with words as pleasant 
As their own perfume. 

In her hands he placed them, 
And her jewelled fingers 
Through the green leaves glistened 
Like the dews of morn ; 



* 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



463 



But she cast them from her, 
Haughty and indignant, 
On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 

" Richer presents," said she, 
" Gave King Harald Gormson 
To the Queen, my mother. 
Than such worthless weeds ; 

" When he ravaged Norway, 
Laying waste the kingdom, 



" Never yet did Olaf 
Fear King Svend of Denmark ; 
This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin ! " 

Then he left the chamber. 
Thundering through the doorway. 
Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 

Smarting with the insult, 
Through the streets of Drontheim 




Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 

" But thou darest not venture 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 
My domains to rescue 
From King Burislaf ; 

" Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother. 
Scatter all thy vessels 
As the wind the chaff." 

Then up sprang King Olaf, 
Like a reindeer bounding. 
With an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen : 



Strode he red and wrathful, 
With his stately air. 

All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 
In the region round ; 

Down the coast of Norway, 
Like a flock of sea-gulls. 
Sailed the fleet of Olaf 
Through the Danish Sound. 

With his own hand fearless. 
Steered he the Long Serpent, 
Strained the creaking cordage, 
Bent each boom and gaff"; 



464 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Till in Vendland landing, 


Soon as the Spring appeared, 


The domains of Thyri 


Svend of the Forked Beard 


He redeemed and rescued 


High his red standard reared, 


From King Burislaf. 


Eager for battle ; 




While every warlike Dane, 


Then said Olaf, laughing, 


Seizing his arms again. 


" Not ten yoke of oxen 


Left all unsown the grain. 


Have the power to draw us 


Unhoused the cattle. 


Like a woman's hair ! 






Likewise the Swedish King 


" Now will I confess it, 


Summoned in haste a Thing, 


Better things are jewels 


Weapons and men to bring 


Than angelica stalks are 


In aid of Denmark ; 


For a Queen to wear." 


Eric the Norseman, too, 




As the war-tidings flew. 


XVII. 


Sailed with a chosen crew 




From Lapland and Finmark. 


KING SVEND OF THE FORKED BEARD, 






So upon Easter day 


Loudly the sailors cheered 


Sailed the three kings away. 


Svend of the Forked Beard, 


Out of the sheltered bay, 


As with his fleet he steered 


In the bright season ; 


Southward to Vendland ; 


With them Earl Sigvald came, 


Where with their courses hauled 


Eager for spoil and fame ; 


All were together called, 


Pity that such a name 


Under the Isle of Svald 


Stooped to such treason ! 


Near to the mainland. 






Safe under Svald at last, 


After Queen Gunhild's death. 


Now were their anchors cast, 


So the old Saga saith, 


Safe from the sea and blast, 


Plighted King Svend his faith 


Plotted the three kings ; 


To Sigrid the Haughty ; 


While, with a base intent, 


And to avenge his bride. 


Southward Earl Sigvald went, 


Soothing her wounded pride. 


On a foul errand bent, 


Over the waters wide 


Unto the Sea-kings. 


King Olaf sought he. 






Thence to hold on his course, 


Still on her scornful face, 


Unto King Olaf's force, 


Blushing with deep disgrace. 


Lying within the hoarse 


Bore she the crimson trace 


Mouths of Stet-haven ; 


Of Olaf 's gauntlet ; 


Him to ensnare and bring. 


Like a malignant star. 


Unto the Danish king. 


Blazing in heaven afar, 


Who his dead corse would fling 


Red shone the angi^ scar 


Forth to the raven ! 


Under her frontlet. 






XVIII. 


Oft to King Svend she spake, 




" For thine own honor's sake 




Shalt thou swift vengeance take 


KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD. 


On the vile coward ! " 




Until the King at last. 


On the gray sea-sands 


Gusty and overcast. 


King Olaf stands. 


Like a tempestuous blast 


Northward and seaward 


Threatened and lowered. 


He points with his hands. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 



465 



With eddy and whirl 
The sea-tides curl, 
Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the Earl. 

The mariners shout, 
The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted, 
The sails flutter out. 

The war-horns are played. 
The anchors are weighed. 
Like moths in the distance 
The sails flit and fade. 

The sea is like lead, 
The harbor lies dead. 
As a corse on the sea-shore, 
Whose spirit has fled ! 

On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 

But soon scattered wide 
O'er the billows they ride. 
While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 

Cried the Earl : " Follow me ! 
I your pilot will be, 
For I know all the channels 
Where flows the deep sea ! " 

So into the strait 
Where his foes lie in wait, 
Gallant King Olaf 
Sails to his fate ! 

Then the sea-fog veils 
The ships and their sails ; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 



KING OLAF'S war-horns. 

'• Strike the sails ! " King Olaf said 
" Never shall men of mine take flight ; 
Never away from battle I fled, 
Never away from my foes ! 
30 



Let God dispose 
(J)f my life in the fight ! " 

" Sound the horns ! " said Olaf the P.ing ; 
And suddenly through the drifting brume 
The blare of the horns began to ring. 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 

Of Regnarock, 
On the Day of Doom ! 

Louder and louder the war-horns sang 
Over the level floor of the flood ; 
All the sails came down with a clang, 
And there in the mist overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 

Drifting down on the Danish fleet 
Three together the ships were lashed, 
So that neither should turn and retreat : 
In the midst, but in front of the rest 

The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 

King Olaf stood on the quarter-deck, 
With bow of ash and arrows of oak, 
His gilded shield was without a fleck. 
His helmet inlaid with gold. 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 

On the forecastle Ulf the Red 
Watched the lashing of the ships ; 
" If the Serpent lie so far ahead, 
We shall have hard work of it here," 

Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 

King Olaf laid an arrow on string, 
" Have I a coward on board ? " said he. 
" Shoot it another way, O King ! " 
Sullenly answered Ulf, 

The old sea-wolf; 
" You have need of me ! " 

In front came Svend, the King of the 

Danes, 
Sweeping down with his fifty rowers ; 
To the right, the Swedish king with his 

thanes ; 
And on board of the Iron Beard 
I I'^-irl Eric steered 

I To the left with his oars. 



466 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



" These soft Danes and Swedes," said 

the King, 
" At home with their wives had better stay. 
Than come within reach of my Serpent's 

sting ; 
But where Eric the Norseman leads 

Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day ! " 

Then as together the vessels crashed, 
Eric severed the cables of hide. 
With which King Olaf 's ships were lashed, 
And left them to drive and drift 

With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 

Louder the war-horns growl and snarl. 
Sharper the dragons bite and sting ! 
Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 
A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King ! 



EINAR TAMBERSKELVER. 

It was Einar Tamberskelver 

Stood beside the mast ; 
From his yew-bow, tipped with silver, 

Flew the arrows fast ; 
Aimed at Eric unavailing. 

As he sat concealed. 
Half behind the quarter-railing, 

Half behind his shield. 

First an arrow struck the tiller, 

Just above his head ; 
" Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller," 

Then Earl Eric said, 
" Sing the song of Hakon dying 

Sing his funeral wail ! " 
And another arrow flying 

Grazed his coat-of-mail. 

Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 

As the arrow passed. 
Said Earl Eric, " Shoot that bowman 

Standing by the mast." 
Sooner than the word was spoken 

Flew the yeoman's shaft ; 
Einar's bow in twain was broken, 

Einar only laughed. 



"What was that .-" " said Olaf, standing 

On the quarter-deck. 
" Something heard I like the stranding 

Of a shattered wreck." 
Einar then, the arrow taking 

From the loosened string. 
Answered, " That was Norway break- 
ing 
From thy hand, O King ! " 

" Thou art but a poor diviner," 

Straightway Olaf said ; 
" Take my bow, and swifter, Einar, 

Let thy shafts be sped." 
Of his bows the fairest choosing, 

Reached he from above ; 
Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 

Through his iron glove. 

But the bow was thin and narrow ; 

At the first assay, 
O'er its head he drew the arrow, 

Flung the bow away ; 
Said, with hot and angiy temper 

Flushing in his cheek, 
" Olaf ! for so great a Kamper 

Are thy bows too weak ! " 

Then, with smile of joy defiant 

On his beardless lip, 
Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 

Eric's dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flowing, 

Bright his armor gleamed ; 
Like Saint Michael overthrowing 

Lucifer he seemed. 



KING OLAF'S death-drink. 

All day has the battle raged. 
All day have the ships engaged. 
But not yet is assuaged 

The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 

The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped, 
The ships are filled with the dead. 
And the spears the champions hurl. 

They drift as wrecks on the tide. 
The grappling-irons are plied. 



THE SAGA OF KING OLAF. 467 


The boarders climb up the side. 


While far on the opposite side 


The shouts are feeble and few. 


Ploats another shield on the tide, 




Like a jewel set in the wide 


Ah ! never shall Norway again 


Sea-current's eddying ring. 


See her sailors come back o'er the main ; 




They all lie wounded or slain, 


There is told a wonderful tale, 


Or asleep in the billows blue ! 


How the King stripped off" his mail, 




Like leaves of the brown sea-kale, 


On the deck stands Olaf the King, 


As he swam beneath the main ; 


Around him whistle and sing 




The spears that the foemen fling. 


But the young grew old and gray, 


And the stones they hurl with their 


And never, by night or by day, 


hands. 


In his kingdom of Norroway 




Was King Olaf seen again ! 


In the midst of the stones and the spears. 




Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, 


xxir. 


His shield in the air he uprears. 




By the side of King Olaf he stands. 


THE NUN OF NIDAROS. 


Over the slippery wreck 


In the convent of Drontheim, 


Of the Long Serpent's deck 


Alone in her chamber 


Sweeps Eric with hardly a check. 


Knelt Astrid the Abbess, 


His lips with anger are pale ; 


At midnight, adoring. 




Beseeching, entreating 


He hews with his axe at the mast, 


The Virgin and Mother. 


Till it falls, with the sails overcast. 




Like a snow-covered pine in the vast 


She heard in the silence 


Dim forests of Orkadale. 


The voice of one speaking. 




Without in the darkness. 


Seeking King Olaf then. 


In gusts of the night-wind 


He rushes aft with his men. 


Now louder, now nearer, 


As a hunter into the den 


Now lost in the distance. 


Of the bear, when he stands at bay. 






The voice of a stranger 


" Remember Jarl Hakon ! " he cries ; 


It seemed as she listened. 


When lo ! on his wondering eyes, 


Of some one who answered. 


Two kingly figures arise, 


Beseeching, imploring. 


Two Olafs in warlike array ! 


A cry from afar off 




She could not distinguish. 


Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 




Of King Olaf a word of cheer, 


The voice of .Saint John, 


In a whisper that none may hear. 


The beloved disciple, 


With a smile on his tremulous lip ; 


Who wandered and waited 




The Master's appearance, 


Two shields raised high in the air, 


Alone in the darkness. 


Two flashes of golden hair. 


Unsheltered and friendless. 


Two scarlet meteors' glare, 




And both have leaped from the ship. 


" It is accepted 




The angry defiance. 


Earl Eric's men in the boats 


The challenge of battle ! 


Seize Kolbiorn's shield as it floats, 


It is accepted, 


And cry, frcjm their hairy throats, 


But not with the weapons 


" Sec ! it is Olaf the King ! " 


Of war that thou wicldcst I 



468 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



" Cross against corslet, 


" Stronger than steel 


Love against hatred, 


Is the sword of the Spirit ; 


Peace-cry for war-cry ! 


Swifter than arrows 


Patience is powerful ; 


The light of the truth is, 


He that o'ercometh 


Greater than anger 


Hath power o'er the nations ! 


Is love, and subdueth ! 


" As torrents in summer, 


" Thou art a phantom. 


Half dried in their channels, 


A shape of the sea-mist. 




Suddenly rise, thoug" the 
Sky is still cloudless, 
For rain has been falling 
Far off at their fountains ; 

" So hearts that are fainting 
Grow full to o'erflowing, 
And they that behold it 
Marvel, and know not 
That God at their fountains 
Far off has been raining ! 



A shaj^e of the brumal 
Rain, and the darkness 
Fearful and formless ; 
Day dawns and thou art not ! 

" The dawn is not distant, 
Nor is the night starless ; 
Love is eternal ! 
God is still God, and 
His faith shall not fail us ; 
Christ is eternal ! " 



TORQUEMADA. 



469 



INTERLUDE. 

A STRAIN of music closed the tale, 
A low, monotonous, funeral wail. 
That with its cadence, wild and sweet. 
Made the long Saga more complete. 

" Thank God," the Theologian said, 
" The reign of violence is dead, 
Or dying surely from the world ; 
While Love triumphant reigns instead, 
And in a brighter sky o'erhead 
His blessed banners are unfurled. 
And most of all thank God for this : 
The war and waste of clashing creeds 
Now end in words, and not in deeds. 
And no one suffers loss, or bleeds. 
For thoughts that men call heresies. 

" I stand without here in the porch, 

I hear the bell's melodious din, 

I hear the organ peal within, 

I hear the prayer, with words that scorch 

Like sparks from an inverted torch, 

I hear the sermon upon sin, 

With threatenings of the last account. 

And all, translated in the air, 

Reach me but as our dear Lord's Prayer, 

And as the Sermon on the Mount. 

" Must it be Calvin, and not Christ ? 
Must it be Athanasian creeds. 
Or holy water, books, and beads ? 
Must struggling souls remain content 
With councils and decrees of Trent .' 
And can it be enough for these 
The Christian Church the year em- 
balms 
With evergreens and boughs of palms, 
And fills the air with litanies ? 

" I know that yonder Pharisee 
Thanks God that he is not like me ; 
In my humiliation dressed, 
I only stand and beat my breast, 
And pray for human charity. 

" Not to one church alone, but seven. 

The voice prophetic spake from heaven ; 

And unto each the promise came, 

Diversified, but still the same ; 

For him that overcometh are 

The new name written on the stone. 



The raiment white, the crown, the 

throne, 
And I will give him the Morning Star ! 

" Ah ! to how many Faith has been 
No evidence of things unseen. 
But a dim shadow, that recasts 
The creed of the Phantasiasts, 
For whom no Man of Sorrows died, 
For whom the Tragedy Divine 
Was but a symbol and a sign. 
And Christ a phantom crucified ! 

" For others a diviner creed 
Is living in the life they lead. 
The passing of their beautiful feet 
Blesses the pavement of the street, 
And all their looks and words repeat 
Old Fuller's saying, wise and sweet, 
Not as a vulture, but a dove. 
The Holy Ghost came from above. 

" And this brings back to me a tale 
So sad the hearer well may quail. 
And question if such things can be ; 
Yet in the chronicles of Spain 
Down the dark pages runs this stain. 
And naught can wash them white again, 
So fearful is the tragedy." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

TORQUEMADA. 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand 
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land. 
And Torquemada, with his subtle brain. 
Ruled them, as Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 
In a great castle near Valladolid, 
Moated and high and by fiiir woodlands 

hid. 
There dwelt, as from the chronicles we 

learn, 
An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn. 
Whose name has perished, with his 

towers of stone. 
And all his actions save this one alone , 
This one so terrible, perhaps 't were best 
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest ; 
Unless, perchance, our eyes can sec 

therein 
The martvrdnm triumphant o'er the sm , 



47 o 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



A double picture, with its gloom and 

glow, 
The splendor overhead, the death below. 

This sombre man counted each day as 

lost 
On which his feet no sacred threshold 

crossed ; 
And when he chanced the passing Host 

to meet, 



His sole diversion was to hunt the boar 
Through tangled thickets of the forest 

hoar, 
Or with his jingling mules to hurry down 
To some grand bull-fight in the neigh- 
boring town, 
Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand, 
When Jews were burned, or banished 

from the land. 
Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy ; 




He knelt and prayed devoutly in the 
street ; 

Oft he confessed ; and with each muti- 
nous thought. 

As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he 
fought. 

In deep contrition scourged himself in 
Lent, 

"Walked in processions, with his head 
down bent. 

At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen. 

And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of 
green. 



The demon whose delight is to destroy 
Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet 

tone, 
" Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out 

his own ! " 

And now, in that old castle in the wood, 

His daughters, in the dawn of woman- 
hood, 

Returning from their convent school, had 
made 

Resplendent with their bloom the forest 
shade, 



rORQUEMADA. 



471 



Reminding him of their dead mother's 

face, 
When first she came into that gloomy 

place, — 
A memory in his heart as dim and sweet 
As moonlight in a solitary street. 
Where the same rays, that lift the sea, 

are thrown 
Lovely but powerless upon walls of 

stone. 
These two fair daughters of a mother 

dead 
Were all the dream had left him as it 

fled. 
A joy at first, and then a growing care. 
As if a voice within him cried, " Be- 
ware ! " 
A vague presentiment of impending 

doom, 
Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room. 
Haunted him day and night ; a formless 

fear 
That death to some one of his house was 

near. 
With dark surmises of a hidden crime. 
Made life itself a death before its time. 
Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of 

shame, 
A spy upon his daughters he became ; 
With velvet slippers, noiseless on the 

floors. 
He glided softly through half-open 

doors ; 
Now in the room, and now upon the 

stair, 
He stood beside them ere they were 

aware ; 
He listened in the passage when they 

talked. 
He watched them from the casement 

when they walked, 
He saw the gypsy haunt the river's side, 
He saw the monk among the cork-trees 

glide ; 
And, tortured by the mystery and the 

doubt 
Of some dark secret, past his finding 

out. 
Baffled he paused ; then reassured again 
Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 
He watched them even when they knelt 

in church ; 
And then, r''»6cending lower in his search, 



Questioned the servants, and with eager 

eyes 
Listened incredulous to their replies ; 
The gypsy } none had seen her in the 

wood ! 
The monk "i a mendicant in search of food ! 

At length the awful revelation came. 
Crushing at once his pride of birth and 

name. 
The hopes his yearning bosom forward 

cast. 
And the ancestral glories of the past ; 
All fell together, crumbling in disgrace, 
A turret rent from battlement to base. 
His daughters talking in the dead of 

night 
In their own chamber, and without a 

light. 
Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 
And learned the dreadful secret, word by 

word ; 
And hurrying from his castle, with a cry 
He raised his hands to the un pitying sky. 
Repeating one dread word, till bush and 

tree 
Caught it, and shuddering answered, 

" Heresy ! " 

Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o'er 

his face, 
Now hurrying forward, now with linger- 
ing pace. 
He walked all night the alleys of his 

park. 
With one unseen companion in the dark. 
The Demon who within him lay in wait. 
And by his presence turned his love to 

hate. 
Forever muttering in an undertone, 
" Kill ! kill ! and let the Lord find out his 
own ! " 

Upon the morrow, after early Mass, 
While yet the dew was glistening on the 

grass. 
And all the woods were musical with 

birds. 
The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words. 
Walked homeward with the Priest, and 

in his room 
Summoned his trembling daughters to 

their doom. 



472 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


When questioned, with brief answers they 


Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more 


replied, 


The Hidalgo went, more eager than be- 


Nor when accused evaded or denied ; 


fore. 


Expostulations, passionate appeals, 


And said : " When Abraham offered up 


All that the human heart most fears or 


his son, 


feels, 


He clave the wood wherewith it might be 


In vain the Priest with earnest voice es- 


done. 


sayed. 


By his example taught, let me too bring 


In vain the father threatened, wept, and 


Wood from the forest for my offering ! " 


prayed ; 


And the deep voice, without a pause, re- 


Until at last he said, with haughty mien, 


plied : 


" The Holy Office, then, must intervene ! " 


" Son of the Church ! by faith now 




justified. 


And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain, 


Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou 


With all the fifty horsemen of his train, 


wilt; 


His awful name resounding, like the blast 


The Church absolves thy conscience 


Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed, 


from all guilt ! " 


Came to Valladolid, and there began 




To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban. 


Then this most wretched father went his 


To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate 


way 


Demanded audience on affairs of state, 


Into the woods, that round his castle lay, 


And in a secret chamber stood before 


Where once his daughters in their child- 


A venerable graybeard of fourscore. 


hood played 


Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar ; 


With their young mother in the sun and 


Out of his eyes flashed a consuming»fire. 


shade. 


And in his hand the mystic horn he held, 


Now all the leaves had fallen ; the 


Which poison and all noxious charms 


branches bare 


dispelled. 


Made a perpetual moaning in the air, 


He heard in silence the Hidalgo's tale, 


And screaming from their eyries over- 


Then answered in a voice that made him 


head 


quail : 


The ravens sailed athwart the sky of 


" Son of the Church ! when Abraham of 


lead. 


old 


With his own hands he lopped the 


To sacrifice his only son was told. 


boughs and bound 


He did not pause to parley nor protest, 


Fagots, that crackled with foreboding 


But hastened to obey the Lord's behest. 


sound, 


In him it was accounted righteousness ; 


And on his mules, caparisoned and gay 


The Holy Church expects of thee no 


With bells and tassels, sent them on 


less ! " 


their way. 


A. sacred frenzy seized the father's brain, 


Then with his mind on one dark pur- 


And Mercy from that hour implored in 


pose bent, 


vain. 


Again to the Inquisitor he went, 


Ah ! who will e'er believe the words I 


And said : " Behold, the fagots I have 


say? 


brought, 


His daughters he accused, and the same 


And now, lest my atonement be as 


day 


naught. 


They both were cast into the dungeon's 


Grant me one more request, one last 


gloom. 


desire, — 


That dismal antechamber of the tomb, 


With my own hand to light the funeral 


Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to 


fire ! " 


the flame, 


And Torquemada answered from his 


The secret torture and the public shame. 


seat, 



rORQUEMADA. 



473 



" Son of the Church ! thhie offering is 

complete ; 
Her servants through all ages shall not 

cease 
To magnify th)^ deed. Depart in peace ! " 

Upon the market-place, builded of stone 
The scaffold rose, whereon Death 
claimed his own. 



The church-bells tolled, the chant of 

monks drew near, 
Loud trumpets stammered forth their 

notes of fear, 
A line of torches smoked along the street, 
There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet. 
And, with its banners floating in the air, 
Slowly the long procession crossed the 

square, 




At the four corners, in stern attitude, 
Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets 

stood. 
Gazing with calm indifference in their 

eyes 
Upon this place of human sacrifice, 
Round which was gathering fast the 

eager crowd, 
With clamor of voices dissonant and loud, 
And every roof and window was alive 
With restless gazers, swarming like a 

hive. 



Ami, to the statues of the Prophets 

bound, 
The victims stood, with fagots piled 

around. 
Then all the air a blast of trumpets 

shook. 
And louder sang the monks with bell and 

book. 
And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and 

l)roud. 
Lifted his torch, and, bursting through 

the crowd, 



474 . TALES OF A 


VAYSIDE INN. 


Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled, 


Unbroken silence filled the room. 


Lest those imploring eyes should strike 


The Jew was thoughtful and distressed ; 


him dead ! 


Upon his memory thronged and pressed 




The persecution of his race. 


O pitiless skies ! why did your clouds 


Their wrongs and sufferings and dis 


retain 


grace ; 


For peasants' fields their floods of 


His head was sunk upon his breast, 


hoarded rain ? 


And from his eyes alternate came 


O pitiless earth ! why opened no abyss 


Flashes of wrath and tears of shame. 


To buiy in its chasm a crime like this ? 






The Student first the silence broke, 


That night, a mingled column of fire and 


As one who long has lain in wait, 


smoke 


With ])urpose to retaliate, 


From the dark thickets of the forest 


And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. 


broke. 


" In such a company as this, 


And, glaring o'er the landscape leagues 


A tale so tragic seems amiss, 


away. 


That by its terrible control 


Made all the fields and hamlets bright as 


O'ermasters and drags down the soul 


day. 


Into a fathomless abyss. 


Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle 


The Italian Tales that you disdain, 


blazed. 


Some merry Night of Straparole, 


And as the villagers in terror gazed, 


Or Machiavelli's Belphagor, 


They saw the figure of that cruel knight 


Would cheer us and delight us more, 


Lean from a window in the turret's height, 


Give greater pleasure and less pain 


His ghastly face illumined with the glare. 


Than your grim tragedies of Spain ! " 


His hands upraised above his head in 




prayer. 


And here the Poet raised his hand, 


Till the floor sank beneath him, and he 


With such entreaty and command, 


fell 


It stopped discussion at its birth, 


Down the black hollow of that burning 


And said : " The story I shall tell 


well. 


Has meaning in it, if not mirth ; 




Listen, and hear what once befell 


Three centuries and more above his bones 


The merry birds of Killingworth I " 


Have piled the oblivious years like 




funeral stones ; 




His name has perished with him, and no 


THE POET'S TALE. 


trace 




Remains on earth of his afflicted race ; 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


But Torquemada's name, with clouds 




o'ercast. 


It was the season, when through all the 


Looms in the distant landscape of the 


land 


Past, 


The merle and mavis build, and build- 


Like a burnt tower upon a blackened 


ing sing 


heath, 


Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand. 


Lit by the fires of burning woods be- 


Whom Saxon Casdmon calls the 


neath ! 


Blithe-heart King ; 




When on the boughs the purple buds 




expand, 


INTERLUDE. 


The banners of the vanguard of the 




Spring, 


Thus closed the tale of guilt and gloom, 


And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap. 


That cast upon each listener's face 


And wave their fluttering signals from 


Its shadow, and for some brief s]ince 


the steep. 



THE BIRDS OF 


KILLING WOK TH. 47 5 


The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, 


The awful scarecrow, with his flutter- 


Filled all the blossoming orchards with 


ing shreds ; 


their glee ; 


The skeleton that waited at their feast. 


The sparrows chirped as if they still were 


Whereby their sinful pleasure was in- 


proud 


creased. 


Their race in Holy Writ should men- 




tioned be ; 


Then from his house, a temple painted 


And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, 


white, 


Clamored their piteous prayer inces- 


With fluted columns, and a roof of red. 


santly, 


The Squire came forth, august and splen- 


Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and 


did sight ! 


said : 


Slowly descending, with majestic tread. 


" Give us, O Lord, this day our daily 


Three flights of steps, nor looking left 


bread ! " 


nor right. 




Down the long street he walked, as one 


Across the Sound the birds of passage 


who said. 


sailed. 


" A town that boasts inhabitants hke me 


Speaking some unknown language 


Can have no lack of good society ! " 


strange and sweet 




Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed 


The Parson, too, appeared, a man aus- 


The village with the cheers of all their 


tere. 


fleet ; 


The instinct of whose nature was to 


Or quarrelling together, laughed and 


kill; 


railed 


The wrath of God he preached from year 


Like foreign sailors, landed in the street 


to year. 


Of seaport town, and with outlandish 


And read, with fervor, Edwards on the 


noise 


Will ; 


Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls 


His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 


and boys. 


In Summer on some Adirondac hill ; 




E'en now, while walking down the rural 


Thus came the jocund Spring in Killing- 


lane. 


worth, 


He lopped the wayside lilies with his 


In fabulous days, some hundred years 


cane. 


ago ; 
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the 


From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 


earth. 


The hill of Science with its vane of 


Heard with alarm the cawing of the 


brass. 


crow. 


Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 


That mingled with the universal mirth, 


Now at the clouds, and now at the 


Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ; 


green grass. 


They shook their heads, and doomed 


And all absorbed in reveries profound 


with dreadful words 


Of fair Almira in the upper class, 


To swift destruction the whole race of 


Who was, as in a sonnet he had said. 


birds. 


As pure as water, and as good as bread. 


And a town-meeting was convened 


And ne.xt the Deacon issued from his 


straightway 


door. 


To set a price upon the guilty heads 


In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as 


Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay. 


snow ; 


Levied black-mail upon the garden 


A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; 


beds 


His form was ponderous, and his step 


And cornfields, and beheld without dis- 


was slow ; 


may 


There never was so wise a man before ; 



476 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told 
you so ! " 
And to perpetuate his great renown 
There was a street named after him in 
town. 

These came together in the new town- 
hall, 
With sundry farmers from the region 
round. 
The Squire presided, dignified and tall, 
His air impressive and his reasoning 
sound ; 
111 fared it with the birds, both great and 
small ; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they 
found, 
But enemies enough, who every one 
Charged them with all the crimes beneath 

the sun. 

« 

When they had ended, from his place 

apart. 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the 

wrong, 
And, trembling like a steed before the 

start. 
Looked round bewildered on the ex- 
pectant throng ; 
Then thought of fair Almira, and took 

heart 
To speak out what was in him, clear 

and strong, 
Alike regardless of their smile or frown, 
And quite determined not to be laughed 

down. 

" Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 
From his Republic banished without 
pity 
The Poets ; in this little town of yours, 
You put to death, by means of a Com- 
mittee, 
The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 
The street-musicians of the heavenly 
city, 
The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

" The thrush that carols at the dawn of 
day 
From the green steeples of the piny 
wood ; 



The oriole in the elm ; the noLsy jay, 

Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 
The bluebird balanced on some topmost 
spray, 
Flooding with melody the neighbor- 
hood ; 
Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the 

throng 
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of 
song ; 

" You slay them all ! and wherefore ? for 
the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of 
wheat. 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain 
Scratched up at random by industrious 
feet. 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain ! 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 
As are the. songs these uninvited guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable 
breasts. 

" Do you ne'er think what wondrous be- 
ings these ? 
Do you ne'er think who made them, 
and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where melodies 

Alone are the interpreters of thought .'' 
Whose household words are songs in 
many keys. 
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er 
caught ! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
Are half-way houses on the road to 
heaven ! 

" Think, every morning when the sun 

peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the 

grove. 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of 

love ! 
And when you think of this, remember 

too 
'T is always morning somewhere, and 

above 
The awakening continents, from shore to 

shore, 
Somewhere the birds are singing ever- 
more. 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 



477 



" Think of your woods and orchards with- 


Of meadow-lark, and her sweet rounde- 


out birds ! 


lay, 


Of empty nests that cling to boughs 


Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take 


and beams 


Your nooning in the shade of bush and 


As in an idiot's brain remembered words 


brake ? 


Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his 




dreams ! 


" You call them thieves and pillagers ; 


Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds 


but know, 


Make up for the lost music, when your 


They are the winged wardens of yout 


teams 


farms. 




Drag home the stingy harvest, and no 

more. 
The feathered gleaners follow to your 

door ? 

" What ! would you rather see the inces- 
sant stir 

Of insects in the windrows of the hay. 
And hear the locust and the grasshopper 

Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ? 
Is this more pleasant to you thnn the whir 



Who from the cornfields drive the insid- 
ious foe, 
And from your harvests keep a hun- 
dred harms ; 

Even the blackest of them all, the 
crow. 
Renders good service as your man-at- 
arms. 

Crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and 
sinail. 



478 ' TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


" How can I teach your children gentle- 


A slaughter to be told in groans, not 


ness, 


words. 


And mercy to the weak, and reverence 


The very St. Bartholomew of Birds ! 


For Life, which, in its weakness or ex- 




cess, 


The Summer came, and all the birds 


Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence, 


were dead ; 


Or Death, which, seeming darkness, is no 


The days were like hot coals ; the very 


less 


ground 


The selfsame light, although averted 


Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed 


hence, 


Myriads of caterpillars, and around 


When by your laws, your actions, and 


The cultivated fields and garden beds 


your speech. 


Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and 


You contradict the very things I teach ? " 


found 




No foe to check their march, till they had 


With this he closed ; and through the 


made 


audience went 


The land a desert without leaf or shade. 


A murmur, like the rustle of dead 




leaves ; 


Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the 


The farmers laughed and nodded, and 


town. 


some bent 


Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly 


Their yellow heads together like their 


Slaughtered the Innocents. From the 


sheaves ; 


trees spun down 


Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment 


The canker-worms upon the passers-by, 


Who put their trust in bullocks and in 


Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and 


beeves. 


gown, 


The birds were doomed ; and, as the 


Who shook them oif with just a little 


record shows. 


cry; 


A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 


They were the terror of each favorite 




walk. 


There was another audience out of reach, 


The endless theme of all the village talk. 


Who had no voice nor vote in making 




laws. 


The farmers grew impatient, but a few 


But in the papers read his little speech, 


Confessed their error, and would not 


And crowned his modest temples with 


complain. 


applause ; 


For after all, the best thing one can do 


They made him conscious, each one more 


When it is raining, is to let it rain. 


than each, 


Then they repealed the law, although 


He still was victor, vanquished in their 


they knew 


cause. 


It would not call the dead to life again ; 


Sweetest of all the applause he won from 


As school-boys, finding their mistake too 


thee. 


late, 


O fair Almira at the Academy ! 


Draw a wet sponge across the accusing 




slate. 


And so the dreadful massacre began ; 




O'er fields and orchards, and o'er 


That year in Killingworth the Autumn 


woodland crests. 


came 


The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 


Without the light of his majestic look, 


Dead fell the birds, with blood-stains 


The wonder of the falling tongues of 


on their breasts. 


flame. 


Or wounded crept away from sight of 


The illumined pages of his Doom's-day 


man. 


Book. 


While the young died of famine in their 


A few lost leaves blushed crimson with 


nests ; 


their shame. 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 



479 



And drowned themselves despairing in 
the brook, 

While the wild wind went moaning every- 
where, 

Lamenting the dead children of the air ! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was 

seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was 

sung. 
As great a wonder as it would have 

been 
If some dumb animal had found a 

tongue ! 
A wagon, overarched with evergreen. 
Upon whose boughs were wicker cages 

hung. 
All full of singing birds, came down the 

street, 
Filling the air with music wild and 

sweet. 

From all the country round these birds 

were brought. 
By order of the town, with anxious 

quest, 
And, loosened from their wicker prisons, 

sought 
In woods and fields the places they 

loved best, 
Singing loud canticles, which many 

thought 
Were satires to the authorities ad- 
dressed, 
While others, listening in green lanes, 

averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard ! 



But blither still and louder carolled they 
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to 
know 

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day. 
And everywhere, around, above, below. 

When the Preceptor bore his bride away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous over- 
flow, 

And a new heaven bent over a new earth 

Amid the sunny farms of Killingworth. 



FINALE. 

The hour was late ; the fire burned low, 
The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep, 
And near the story's end a deep 
Sonorous sound at times was heard. 
As when the distant bagpipes blow. 
At this all laughed ; the Landlord stirred-. 
As one awaking from a swound, 
And, gazing anxiously around, 
Protested that he had not slept. 
But only shut his eyes, and kept 
His ears attentive to each word. 

Then all arose, and said " Good Night.' 
Alone remained the drowsy Squire 
To rake the embers of the fire. 
And quench the waning parlor light ; 
While from the windows, here and there 
The scattered lamps a moment gleamed 
And the illumined hostel seemed 
The constellation of the Bear, 
Downward, athwart the misty air, 
Sinking and setting toward the sun. 
Far off" the village clock struck one. 



TALES OF A 


WAYSIDE INN. 


PART SECOND. 


PRELUDE. 


And all was silent as before, — 




All silent save the dripping rain. 


A COLD, uninterrupted rain, 




That washed each southern window- 


Then one by one the guests came down, 


pane. 


And greeted with a smile the Squire, 


And made a river of the road ; 


Who sat before the parlor fire, 


A sea of mist that overflowed 


Reading the paper fresh from town. 


The house, the barns, the gilded vane, 


First the Sicilian, like a bird. 


And drowned the upland and the plain, 


Before his form appeared, was heard 


Through which the oak-trees, broad and 


Whistling and singing down the stair ; 


high, 


Then came the Student, with a look 


Like phantom ships went drifting by ; 


As placid as a meadow-brook ; 


And, hidden behind a watery screen, 


The Theologian, still perplexed 


The sun unseen, or only seen 


With thoughts of this world and the 


As a faint pallor in the sky ; — 


next ; 


Thus cold and colorless and gray. 


The Poet then, as one who seems 


The morn of that autumnal day. 


Walking in visions and in dreams ; 


As if reluctant to begin, 


Then the Musician, like a fair 


Dawned on the silent Sudbury Inn, 


Hyperion from whose golden hair 


And all the guests that in it lay. 


The radiance of the morning streams ; 




And last the aromatic Jew 


Full late they slept. They did not hear 


Of Alicant, who, as he threw 


The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, 


The door wide open, on the air 


Who on the empty threshing-floor, 


Breathed round about him a perfume 


Disdainful of the rain outside, 


Of damask roses in full bloom, 


Was strutting with a martial stride, 


Making a garden of the room. 


As if upon his thigh he wore 




The famous broadsword of the .Squire, 


The breakfast ended, each pursued 


And said, " Behold me, and admire ! " 


The promptings of his various mood ; 




Beside the fire in silence smoked 


Only the Poet seemed to hear. 


The taciturn, impassive Jew, 


In drowse or dream, more near and near 


Lost in a pleasant revery ; 


Across the border-land of sleep 


While, by his gravity provoked, 


The blowing of a blithesome horn, 


His portrait the Sicilian drew, 


That laughed the dismal day to scorn ; 


And wrote beneath it " Edrehi, 


A splash of hoofs and rush of wheels 


At the Red Horse in Sudbury." 


Through sand and mire like stranding 




keels, 


By far the busiest of them all, 


As from the road with sudden sweep 


The Theologian in the hall 


The Mail drove up the little steep, 


Was feeding robins in a cage, — 


And stopped beside the tavern door ; 


Two corpulent and lazy birds. 


A moment stopped, and then again 


Vagrants and pilferers at best. 


With crack of whip and bark of dog 


If one might trust the hostler's words, 


Plunged forward through the sea of fog. 


Chief instrument of their arrest ; 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 48 1 


Two poets of the Golden Age, 


And said : " Alas for human greed, 


Heirs of a boundless heritage 


That with cold hand and stony eye 


Of fields and orchards, east and west. 


Thus turns an old friend out to die, 


And sunshine of long summer days. 


Or beg his food from gate to gate ! 


Though outlawed now and dispos- 


This brings a tale into my mind. 


sessed ! — 


Which, if you are not disinclined 


Such was the Theologian's phrase. 


To listen, I will now relate." 


Meanwhile the Student held discourse 


All gave assent ; all wished to hear, 


With the Musician, on the source 


Not without many a jest and jeer, 


Of all the legendary lore 


The story of a spavined steed ; 


Among the nations, scattered wide 


And even the Student with the rest 


Like silt and seaweed by the force 


Put in his pleasant little jest 


And fluctuation of the tide ; 


Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus 


The tale repeated o'er and o'er, 


Is but a horse that with all speed 


With change of place and change of 


Bears poets to the hospital ; 


name. 


W' hile the Sicilian, self-possessed, 


Disguised, transformed, and yet the same 


After a moment's interval 


We 've heard a hundred times before. 


Began his simple story thus. 


The Poet at the window mused, 




And saw, as in a dream confused. 




The countenance of the Sun, discrowned. 


THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 


And haggard with a pale despair. 




And saw the cloud-rack trail and drift 


THK BELL OK ATRL 


Before it, and the trees uplift 




Their leafless branches, and the air 


At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town 


Filled with the arrows of the rain. 


Of ancient Roman date, but scant re- 


And heard amid the mist below, 


nown. 


Like voices of distress and pain, 


One of those little places that have run 


That haunt the thoughts of men insane. 


Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun. 


The fateful cawings of the crow. 


And then sat down to rest, as if to say. 




" I climb no farther ujnvard, come what 


Then down the road, with mud besprent. 


may," — 


And drenched with rain from head to 


The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame, 


hoof, 


So many monarchs since have borne the 


The rain-drops dripping from his mane 


name. 


.•\nd tail as from a pent-house roof. 


Had a great bell hung in the market- 


A jaded horse, his head down bent, 


place 


Passed slowly, limping as he went. 


Beneath a roof, projecting some small 




space, 


The young Sicilian — who had grown 


By way of shelter from the sun and rain. 


Impatient longer to abide 


Then rode he through the streets with all 


A prisoner, greatly mortified 


his train, 


To see completely overthrown 


And, with the blast of trumpets loud and 


His plans for angling in the brook. 


long, 


And, leaning o'er the bridge of stone, 


Made proclamation, that whenever wrong 


To watch the speckled trout glide by, 


W^as done to any man, he should but ring 


And float through the inverted sky. 


The great bell in the square, and he, the 


Still round and round the baited hook — 


King, 


Now paced the room with rajiid stride. 


Would cause the Syndic to decide 


And, pausing at the Poet's side, 


thereon. 


Looked forth, and saw the wretched steed, 
3' 


Such was the proclamation of King John. 



482 



TALES OF A IV A YSIDE INN. 



How swift the happy clays in Atri sped, 
What wrongs were righted, need not here 

be said. 
Suffice it that, as all things must decay, 
The hempen rope at length was worn 

away, 
Unravelled at the end, and, strand by 

strand, 
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand. 
Till one, who noted this in passing by, 
Mended the rope with braids of briony, 
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine 
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine. 

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt 
A knight, with spur on heel and sword 

in belt. 
Who loved to hunt the wild-boar in the 

woods. 
Who loved his falcons with their crimson 

hoods, 
Who loved his hounds and horses, and 

all sports 
And prodigalities of camps and courts ; — 
Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, 

grown old. 
His only passion was the love of gold. 

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and 

hounds, 
Rented his vineyards and his garden- 
grounds. 
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of 

all 
To starve and shiver in a naked stall, 
And day by day sat brooding in his chair. 
Devising plans how best to hoard and 
spare. 

At length he said : " What is the use or 

need 
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed. 
Eating his head off in my stables here. 
When rents are low and provender is 

dear ? 
Let him go feed upon the public ways ; 
I want him only for the holidays." 
So the old steed was turned into the heat 
Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless 

street ; 
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn. 
Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and 

thorn. 



One afternoon, as in that sultry clime 
It is the custom in the summer time, 
With bolted doors and window-shutters 

closed, 
The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ; 
When suddenly upon their senses fell 
The loud alarum of the accusing bell ! 
The Syndic started from his deep repose, 
Turned on his couch, and listened, and 

then rose 
And donned his robes, and with reluctant 

pace 
W^ent panting forth into the market- 
place, 
Where the great bell upon its cross-beam 

swung 
Reiterating with persistent tongue. 
In half- articulate jargon, the old song : 
" Some one hath done a wrong, hath 
done a wrong ! " 

But ere he reached the belfry's light ar- 
cade 
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its 

shade. 
No shape of human form of woman born, 
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn, 
Who with uplifted head and eager eye 
\Vas tugging at the vines of briony. 
" Domeneddio ! " cried the Svndic 

straight, 
" This is the Knight of Atri's steed of 

state ! 
He calls for justice, being sore distressed. 
And pleads his cause as loudly as the 
best." 

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy 

crowd 
Had rolled together like a summer cloud, 
And told the story of the wretched beast 
In five-and-twenty different ways at least, 
With much gesticulation and appeal 
To heathen gods, in their excessive zeal. 
The Knight was called and questioned ; 

in replv 
Did not confess the fact, did not deny ; 
Treated the matter as a pleasant jest, 
And set at naught the Syndic and the 

rest. 
Maintaining, in an angry undertone, 
That he should do what pleased him with 

his own. 



INTERLUDE. 



4H.3 



And thereupon the Syndic gravely read 

The proclamation of the King ; then said : 

" Pride goetlr forth on horseback grand 
and gay, 

But Cometh back on foot, and begs its 
way ; 

Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds, 

Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds ! 

These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear 

They never yet have reached your 
knightly ear. 

What fair renown, what honor, what re- 
pute 

Can come to you from starving this poor 
brute ? 

He who serves well and speaks not, 
merits more 

Than they who clamor loudest at the door. 

Therefore the law decrees that as this 
steed 

Served you in youth, henceforth you shall 
take heed 

To comfort his old age, and to provide 

Shelter in stall, and food and field be- 
side." 

The Knight withdrew abashed ; the peo- 
ple all 
Led home the steed in triumph to his stall. 
The King heard and approved, and 

lauglied in glee. 
And cried aloud : " Right well it pleaseth 

me ! 
Church-bells at best but ring us to the 

door, 
But go not in to mass ; my bell doth 

more : 
It Cometh into court and j^leads the cause 
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the 

laws ; 
And this shall make, in every Christian 

clime, 
The Bell of Atri famous for all time." 



IXTKRLUDE. 

" Vks, well your storv i:)leads the cause 
Of tliDse dumb mouths that have no 

speech. 
Only a cry from each to each 
In its own kind, with its own laws ; 
Something that is Iievond tlie reach 



Of human power to learn or teach, — 
An inarticulate moan of pain. 
Like the inmieasurable main 
Breaking upon an unknown beach." 

Thus spake the Poet with a sigh ; 
Then added, with impassioned cry. 
As one v.ho feels the words he speaks. 
The color flushing in his cheeks, 
The fervor burning in his eye : 
" Among the noblest in the land, 
Though he may count himself the least, 
That man I honor and revere 
Who without favor, without fear, 
In the great city dares to stand 
The friend of every friendless beast. 
And tames with his unflinching hand 
The brutes that wear our form and face. 
The were-wolves of the human race ! " 
Then paused, and waited with a frown. 
Like some old champion of romance. 
Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, 
Expectant leans upon his lance ; 
But neither Knight nor Squire is found 
To raise the gauntlet from the ground. 
And try with him the battle's chance. 

" Wake from your dreams, O Edrehi ! 

Or dreaming speak to us, and make 

A feint of being half awake. 

And tell us what your dreams may be. 

Out of the hazy atmosphere 

Of cloud-land deign to reappear 

Among us in this Wayside Inn ; 

Tell us what visions and what scenes 

Illuminate the dark ravines 

In which you grope your way. Begin ! ' 

Thus the .Sicilian spake. The Jew 
Made no reply, but only smiled, 
As men unto a wayward child, 
Not knowing what to answer, do. 
As from a cavern's moutii, o'ergrown 
With moss and intertangled vines, 
A streamlet leaps into the light 
And murmurs over root and stone 
In a melodious undertone ; 
Or as amid the noonday night 
Of sombre and wind -haunted pines, 
There runs a sound as of the sea ; 
So from his bearded lips there came 
A melody without a name, 
A song, a tale, a history, 



484 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



Or whatsoever it may be, 

Writ and recorded in these lines. 



THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 

KAMBALU. 

Into the city of Kanibalu, 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan, 
At the head of his dusty caravan, 
Laden with treasure from reahns afar, 
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar, 
Rode the great captain Alau. 

The Khan from his palace-window gazed. 
And saw in the thronging street beneath, 
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed 
Through the clouds of dust by the cara- 
van raised, 
The flash of harness and jewelled sheath, 
And the shining scymitars of the guard, 
And the weary camels that bared their 

teeth. 
As they passed and passed through the 

gates unbarred 
Into the shade of the palace-yard. 

Thus into the city of Kambalu 
Rode the great captain Alau ; 
And he stood before the Khan, and said : 
" The enemies of my lord are dead ; 
All the Kalifs of all the We3t 
Bow and obey thy least behest ; 
The plains ai'e dark with the mulberry- 
trees. 
The weavers are busy in Samarcand, 
The miners are sifting the golden sand, 
The divers plunging for pearls in the seas. 
And peace and plenty are in the land. 

" Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone. 
Rose in revolt against thy throne : 
His treasures are at thy palace-door, 
With the swords and the shawls and the 

jewels he wore ; 
His body is dust o'er the desert blown. 

" A mile outside of Baldacca's gate 
I left my forces to lie in wait. 
Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand. 
And forward dashed with a handful of 
men, 



To lure the old tiger from his den 

Into the ambush I had planned. 

Ere we reached the town the alarm was 
spread. 

For we heard the sound of gongs from 
within ; 

And with clash of cymbals and warlike 
din 

The gates swung wide ; and we turned 
and fled ; 

And the garrison sallied forth and pur- 
sued, 

With the gray old Kalif at their head. 

And above them the banner of Moham- 
med : 

So we snared them all, and the town was 
subdued. 

" As in at the gate we rode, behold, 
A tower that is called the Tower of Gold ! 
For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth, 
Heaped and hoarded and piled on high, 
Like sacks of wheat in a granary ; 
And thither the miser crept by stealth 
To feel of the gold that gave him health. 
And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye 
On jewels that gleamed like a glow- 
worm's spark. 
Or the eyes of a panther in the dark. 

" I said to the Kalif : ' Thou art old. 
Thou hast no need of so much gold. 
Thou shouldst not have heaped and hid- 
den it here. 
Till the breath of battle was hot and near, 
But have sown through the land these 

useless hoards 
To spring into shining blades of swords, 
And keep thine honor sweet and clear. 
These grains of gold are not grains of 

wheat ; 
These bars of silver thou canst not eat ; 
These jewels and pearls and precious 

stones 
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones, 
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour 
From climbing the stairways of thy 
tower ! ' 

" Then into his dungeon I locked the 

drone, 
And left him to feed there all alone 
In the honey-cells of his golden hive : 



THE STUDENTS TALE. 



485 



Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan 
Was heard from those massive walls of 

stone, 
Xor again was the Kalif seen alive ! 

" When at last we unlocked the door, 
We found him dead upon the floor ; 
The rings had dropped from his withered 

hands, 
His teeth were like bones in the desert 

sands : 
Still clutching his treasure he had died ; 
And as he lay there, he appeared 
A statue of gold with a silver beard, 
His arms outstretched as if crucified.'' 

This is the story, strange and true, 
That the great captain Alau 
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan, 
When he rode that day into Kambalu 
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan. 



INTERLUDE. 

" I THOUGHT before your tale began," 
The Student murmured, " we should have 
Some legend written by Judah Rav 
In his Gemara of Babylon ; 
Or something from the Gulistan, — 
The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, 
Or of that King of Khorasan 
Who saw in dreams the eyes of one 
That had a hundred years been dead 
.Still moving restless in his head, 
Undimmed, and gleaming with the lust 
Of power, though all the rest was dust. 

" But lo ! your glittering caravan 
On the road that leadeth to Ispahan 
Hath led us farther to the East 
Into the regions of Cathay. 
Spite of your Kalif and his gold, 
Pleasant has been the tale you told, 
And full of color ; that at least 
No one will question or gainsay. 
And yet on such a dismal day 
We need a merrier tale to clear 
The dark and heavy atmosphere. 
.So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, 
Without a preface, what befell 
A simple cobbler, in the year — 



No matter ; it was long ago ; 
And that is all we need to know." 



THE STUDENT'S TALE. 

THE COliBLER OY H.AGEN.MJ. 

I TRUST that somewhere and somehow 
You all have heard of Hagenau, 
A quiet, quaint, and ancient town 
Among the green Alsatian hills, 
A place of valleys, streams, and mills, 
\Vhere Barbarossa's castle, brown 
With rust of centuries, still looks down 
On the broad, drow.sy land below, — 
On shadowj- forests filled with game. 
And the blue river winding slow 
Through meadows, where the hedges 

grow 
That give this little town its name. 

It happened in the good old times, 
While yet the Master-singers filled 
The noisy workshop and the guild 
With various melodies and rhymes, 
That here in Hagenau there dwelt 
A cobbler, — one who loved debate. 
And, arguing from a postulate. 
Would say what others only felt ; 
A man of forecast and of thrift. 
And of a shrewd and careful mind 
In this world's business, but inclined 
Somewhat to let the ne.xt world drift. 

Hans .Sachs with vast delight he read, 

And Regenbogeil's rhymes of love, 

For their poetic fame had spread 

Even to the town of Hagenau ; 

And some Quick Melody of the Plough, 

Or Double Harmony of the Dove, 

W^as always running in his head. 

He kept, moreover, at his side, 

Among his leathers and his tools, 

Revnard the Fo.\, the Ship of Fools, 

Or Eulenspiegel, open wide ; 

With these he was much edified : 

He thought them wiser than the Schools. 

His good wife, full of godly fear, 
Liked not these worldly themes to hear ; 
The Psalter was her book of songs ; 
The only music to her ear 



486 TALES OF A IVA YSIDE INN. 


Was that which to the Church belongs, 


The cobbler slowly turned his last. 


When the loud choir on Sunday chanted, 


And, wagging his sagacious head, 


And the two angels carved in wood, 


Unto his kneeling housewife said : 


That by the windy organ stood, 


" 'T is the monk Tetzel. I have heard 


Blew on their trumpets loud and clear, 


The cawings of that reverend bird. 


And all the echoes, far and near, 


Don't let him cheat you of your gold ; 


Gibbered as if the church were haunted. 


Indulgence is not bought and sold." 


Outside his door, one afternoon, 




This humble votary of the muse 


The church of Hagenau, that night. 


Sat in the narrow strip of shade 


Was full of people, full of light ; 


By a projecting cornice made. 


An odor of incense filled the air, 


Mending the Burgomaster's shoes, 


The priest intoned, the organ groaned 


And singing a familiar tune . — 


Its inarticulate despair ; 

The candles on the altarblazed 




" Our ingress into the world 


And full in front of it upraised 


Was naked and bare ; 


The red cross stood against the glare. 


Our progress through the world 


Below, upon the altar-rail 


Is trouble and care ; 


Indulgences were set to sale, 


Our egress from the world 


Like ballads at a country fair. 


Will be nobody knows where : 


A heavy strong-box, iron-bound 


But if we do well here 


And carved with many a quaint de- 


We shall do well there ; 


vice. 


And I could tell you no more. 


Received, with a melodious sound, 


Should I preach a whole year ! " 


The coin that purchased Paradise. 


Thus sang the cobbler at his work ; 


Then from the pulpit overhead. 


And with his gestures marked the time 


Tetzel, the monk, with fiery glow. 


Closing together with a jerk 


Thundered upon the crowd below. 


Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme. 


" Good people all, draw near ! " he said ; 


Meanwhile his quiet little dame 


" Purchase these letters, signed and 


Was leaning o'er the window-sill, 


sealed, 


Eager, excited, but mouse-still, 


By which all sins, though unrevealed 


Gazing impatiently to see 


And unrepented, are forgiven ! 


What the great throng of folk might be 


Count but the gain, count not the loss ! 


That onward in procession came, 


Your gold and silver are but dross. 


Along the unfrequented street, 


And yet they pave the way to heaven. 


With horns that blew, and drums that 


I hear your mothers and your sires 


beat, 


Cry from their purgatorial fires. 


And banners flying, and the flame 


And will ye not their ransom pay .' 


Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet 


O senseless people ! when the gate 


Voices of nuns ; and as they sang 


Of heaven is open, will ye wait } 


Suddenly all the church-bells rang. 


Will ye not enter in to-day .' 




To-morrow it will be too late ; 


In a gay coach, above the crowd, 


I shall be gone upon my way. 


There sat a monk in ample hood, 


Make haste ! bring money while ye may ! " 


Who with his right hand held aloft 




A red and ponderous cross of wood. 


The women shuddered, and turned pale ; 


To which at times he meekly bowed. 


Allured by hope or driven by fear. 


In front three horsemen rode, and oft. 


With many a sob and many a tear, 


With voice and air importunate. 


All crowded to the altar-rail. 


A boisterous herald cried aloud : 


Pieces of silver and of gold 


" The grace of God is at your gate ! " 


Into the tinkling strong-box fell 


So onward to the church they passed. 


Like pebbles dropped into a well ; 



THE STUDENTS TALE. 



487 



And soon the ballads were all sold. 

The cobbler's wife among the rest 

Slipped into the capacious chest 

A golden florin ; then withdrew, 

Hiding the paper in her breast ; 

And homeward through the darkness 

went 
Comforted, quieted, content ; 
She did not walk, she rather flew, 
A dove that settles to her nest, 
When some appalling bird of prev 
That scared her has been driven away. 

The clays went b}-, the monk was gone, 
The summer passed, the winter came ; 
'J'hough seasons changed, yet still the 

same 
The daily round of life went on ; 
The daily round of household care, 
The narrow life of toil and prayer. 
But in her heart the cobbler's dame 
Had now a treasure beyond price, 
A secret joy without a name. 
The certainty of Paradise. 
Alas, alas ! Dust unto dust ! 
Before the winter wore away, 
Her body in the churchyard lay. 
Her patient soul was with the Just ! 
After her death, among the things 
That even the poor jireserve with 

care, — 
Some little trinkets and cheap rings, 
A locket with her mother's hair, 
Her wedding grown, the faded flowers 
She wore upon her wedding day, — 
Among these memories of past hours. 
That so much of the heart reveal, 
Carefully kept and put away. 
The Letter of Indulgence lay 
Folded, with signature and seal. 

Meanwhile, the Priest, aggrieved and 

pained, 
Waited and wondered that no word 
Of mass or requiem he heard. 
As by the Holy Church ordained : 
Then to the Magistrate complained. 
That as this woman had been dead 
A week or more, and no mass said, 
It was rank heresy, or at least 
Contempt of Church ; thus said the 

I'ricst ; 
And straisfht the cobbler was arraitrncd. 



He came, confiding in his cause, 
But rather doubtful of the laws. 
The Justice from his elbow-chair 
Gave him a look that seemed to say : 
" Thou standest before a Magistrate, 
Therefore do not prevaricate ! " 
Then asked him in a business way, 
Kindly but cold : " Is thy wife dead .' " 
The cobbler meekly bowed his head ; 
" She is," came struggling from his throat 
Scarce audibly. The Justice wrote 
The words down in a book, and then 
Continued, as he raised his pen : 
" She is ; and hath a mass been said 
For the salvation of her soul ? 
Come, speak the truth ! confess the 

whole ! " 
The cobbler without pause replied : 
" Of mass or prayer there was no need ; 
For at the moment when she died 
Her soul was with the glorified ! " 
And from his pocket with all speed 
He drew the priestly title-deed. 
And prayed the Justice he would read. 

The Justice read, amused, amazed ; 
And as he read his mirth increased ; 
At times his shaggy brows he raised. 
Now wondering at the cobbler gazed, 
Now archly at the angry Priest. 
" From all excesses, sins, and crimes 
Thou hast committed in past times 
Thee I absolve ! And furthermore, 
Purified from all earthly taints. 
To the communion of the Saints 
And to the sacraments restore ! 
All stains of weakness, and all trace 
Of shame and censure I efface ; 
Remit the pains thou shouldst endure. 
And make thee innocent and pure, 
So that in dying, unto thee 
The gates of heaven shall open be ! 
Though long thou livest, yet this grace 
Until the moment of thy death 
Unchangeable continueth ! " 

Then said he to the Priest : " I find 
This document is duly signed 
Brother John Tetzel, his own hand. 
At all tribunals in the land 
In evidence it may be used ; 
Therefore acquitted is the accused." 
Then to the cobbler turned : " Mv friend, 



Pray tell me, didst thou ever read 
Reynard the Fox ? " — " O yes, ii 

deed ! " — 
" I thought so. Don't forget the end." 



INTERLUDE 

" What was the end ? I am ashamed 
Not to remember Reynard's fate ; 
I have not read the book of late ; 
Was he not hanged ? " the Poet said. 
The Student gravely shook his head, 
And answered : " You exaggerate. 
There was a tournament proclaimed, 
And Reynard fought with Isegrim 
The Wolf, and having vanquished him. 
Rose to high honor in the State, 
And Keeper of the Seals was named ! " 

At this the gay Sicilian laughed : 

" Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft ; 

Successful cunning seems to be 

The moral of your tale," said he. 

" Mine had a better, and the Jew's 

Had none at all, that I could see ; 

His aim was only to amuse." 

Meanwhile from out its ebon case 

His violin the Minstrel drew. 

And having tuned its strings anew, 

Now held it close in his embrace. 

And poising in his outstretched hand 

The bow, like a magician's wand, 

He paused, and said, with beaming face : 

" Last night my story was too long ; 

To-day I give you but a song, 

An old tradition of the North ; 

But first to put you in the mood, 

I will a little while prelude. 

And from this instrument draw forth 

Something by way of overture." 

He played ; at first the tones were pure 

And tender as a summer night. 

The full moon climbing to her height, 

The sob and ripple of the seas, 

The flapping of an idle sail ; 

And then by sudden and sharp degrees 

The multiplied^ wild harmonies 

Freshened and burst into a gale ; 

A tempest howling through the dark, 



A crash as of some shipwrecked bark 
A loud and melancholy wail. 

Such was the prelude to the tale 
Told by the Minstrel ; and at times 
He paused amid its varying rhymes, 
And at each pause again broke in 
The music of his violin. 
With tones of sweetness or of fear, 
Movements of trouble or of calm. 
Creating their own atmosphere ; 
As sitting in a church we hear 
Between the verses of the psalm 
The organ playing soft and clear, 
Or thundering on the startled ear. 



THE MUSICL\N'S TALE. 

THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN. 



At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 

Within the sandy bar, 
At sunset of a summer's day, 
Ready for sea at anchor lay 

The good ship Valdemar. 

The sunbeams danced upon the waves, 

And played along her side ; 
And through the cabin windows streamed 
In ripples of golden light, that seemed 

The ripple of the tide. 

There sat the captain with his friends. 

Old skippers brown and hale, 
Who smoked and grumbled o'er their 

g''og. 
And talked of iceberg and of fog, 
Of calm and storm and gale. 

And one was spinning a sailor's yarn 

About Klaboterman, 
The Kobold of the sea ; a spright 
Invisible to mortal sight. 

Who o'er the rigging ran. 

Sometimes he hammered in the hold. 

Sometimes upon the mast, 
Sometimes abeam, sometimes abaft. 
Or at the bows he sang and laughed, 

And made all tight and fast. 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 



489 



He helped the sailors at their work, 

And toiled with jovial din ; 
He helped them hoist and reef the sails, 
He helped them stow the casks and 
bales, 

And heave the anchor in. 

But woe unto the lazy louts, 

The idlers of the crew ; 
Them to torment was his delight. 
And worry them by day and night, 

And pinch them black and blue. 

And woe to him whose mortal eyes 

Klaboterman behold. 
It is a certain sign of death ! — 
The cabin-boy here held his breath, 

He felt his blood run cold. 



The jolly skipper paused awhile, 

And then again began ; 
" There is a Spectre Ship," quoth he, 
" A ship of the Dead that sails the sea. 

And is called the Carmilhan. 

" A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew. 

In tempests she appears; 
And before the gale, or against the gale, 
She sails without a rag of sail, 

Without a helmsman steers. 

" She haunts the Atlantic north and south. 

But mostly the mid-sea, 
Where three great rocks rise bleak and 

bare 
Like furnace-chimneys in the air. 

And are called the Chimneys Three. 

" And ill betide the luckless ship 

That meets the Carmilhan ; 
Over her decks the seas will leap. 
She must go down into the deep. 

And perish mouse and man." 

The captain of the Valdemar 

Laughed loud with merry heart. 
" I should like to see this ship," said 

he; 
" I should like to find these Chimneys 
Three, 
That are marked down in the chart. 



" I have sailed right over the spot," he 
said, 
" With a good stiff I)reeze behind, 
When the sea was blue, and the sky was 

clear, — 
You can follow my course by these pin- 
holes here, — 
And never a rock could find." 

And then he swore a dreadful oath, 

He swore by the Kingdoms Three, 
That, should he meet the Carmilhan, 
He would run her down, although he ran 
Right into Eternity ! 

All this, while passing to and fro, 

The cabin-boy had heard ; 
He lingered at the door to hear. 
And drank in all with greedy ear, 

And pondered every word. 

He was a simple country lad. 

But of a roving mind. 
" O, it must be like heaven," thought 

he, 
" Those far-off foreign lands to see, 

And fortune seek and find ! " 

But in the fo'castle, when he heard 

The mariners blaspheme. 
He thought of home, he thought of God, 
And his mother under the churchyard sod. 

And wished it were a dream. 

One friend on board that ship had he ; 

'T was the Klaboterman, 
Who saw the Bible in his chest. 
And made a sign upon his breast, 

All evil things to ban. 



TiiK cabin windows have grown blank 

As eyeballs of the dead ; 
No more the glancing sunbeams burn 
On the gilt letters of the stern, 

But on the figure-head ; 

On Valdemar Victorious, 

Who lookelh with disdain 
To see his image in the tide 
Dismembered float from side to side. 

And reunite again. 



49° 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



" It is the wind," those skippers said, 

" That swings the vessel so ; 
It is the wind ; it freshens fast, 
'T is time to say farewell at last, 

'T is time for us to go." 

They shook the captain by the hand, 

" Good luck ! good luck ! " they cried ; 
Each face was like the setting sun, 
As, broad and red, they one by one 
Went o'er the vessel's side. 

The sun went down, the full moon rose, 

Serene o'er field and flood ; 
And all the winding creeks and bays 
And broad sea-meadows seemed ablaze. 

The sky was red as blood. 

The southwest wind blew fresh and fair, 

As fair as wind could be ; 
Bound for Odessa, o'er the bar, 
With all sail set, the Valdemar 

Went proudly out to sea. 

The lovely moon climbs up the sky 

As one who walks in dreams ; 
A tower of marble in her light, 
A wall of black, a wall of white. 
The stately vessel seems. 

Low down upon the sandy coast 

The lights begin to burn ; 
And now, uplifted high in air. 
They kindle with a fiercer glare. 

And now drop far astern. 

The dawn appears, the land is gone, 

The sea is all around ; 
Then on each hand low hills of sand 
Emerge and form another land ; 

She steereth through the Sound. 

Through Kattegat and Skager-rack 

She flitteth like a ghost ; ' 
By day and night, by night and day. 
She bounds, she flies upon her way 

Along the English coast. 

Cape Finisterre is drawing near, 

Cape Finisterre is past ; 
Into the open ocean stream 
She floats, the vision of a dream 

Too beautiful to last. 



Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet 

There is no land in sight ; 
The liquid planets overhead 
Burn brighter now the moon is dead, 
And longer stays the night. 



And now along the horizon's edge 

Mountains of cloud uprose, 
Black as with forests underneath. 
Above their sharp and jagged teeth 

Were white as drifted snows. 

Unseen behind them sank the sun, 

But flushed each snowy peak 
A little while with rosy light 
That faded slowly from the sight 

As blushes from the cheek. 

Black grew the sky, — all black, all black ; 

The clouds were everywhere ; 
There was a feeling of suspense 
In nature, a mysterious sense 

Of terror in the air. 

And all on board the Valdemar 

Was still as still could be ; 
Save when the dismal ship-bell tolled. 
As ever and anon she rolled, 

And lurched into the sea. 

The captain up and down the deck 

Went striding to and fro ; 
Now watched the compass at the wheel, 
Now lifted up his hand to feel 

Which way the wind might blow. 

And now he looked up at the sails, 

And now upon the deep ; 
In every fibre of his frame 
He felt the storm before it came. 

He had no thought of sleep. 

Eight bells ! and suddenly abaft, 

With a great rush of rain. 
Making the ocean white with spume. 
In darkness like the day of doom, 

On came the hurricane. 

The lightning flashed from cloud to 
cloud. 
And rent the sky in two ; 



INTERLUDE. 491 


A jagged flame, a single jet 
Oi white fire, like a bayonet, 


Then suddenly there came a shock, 
And louder than wind or sea 


That pierced the eyeballs through. 


A cry burst from the crew on deck, 


Then all around was dark again. 


As she dashed and crashed, a hopeless 
wreck. 


And blacker than before ; 
But in that single flash of light 


Upon the ChimneNS Three. 


He had beheld a fearful sight, 
And thought of the oath he swore. 


The storm and night were passed, the light 
To streak the east began ; 


For right ahead lay the .Ship of the Dead, 
The ghostly Carmilhan ! 


The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, 
Survived the wreck, and only he, 
To tell of the Carmilhan. 


Her masts were stripped, her yards were 
bare. 




And on her bowsprit, poised in air, 
Sat the Klaboterman. 


INTERLUDE. 


Her crew of ghosts was all on deck 

Or clambering up the shrouds ; 
The boatswain's whistle, the captain's hail, 
Were like the piping of the gale. 
And thunder in the clouds. 


When the long murmur of applause 
That greeted the Musician's lay 
Had slowly buzzed itself away, 
And the long talk of Spectre Ships 
That followed died upon their lips 
And came unto a natural pause, 


And close behind the Carmilhan 


" These tales you tell are one and all 
Of the Old World," the Poet said. 


There rose up from the sea. 
As from a foundered ship of stone. 


" Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, 
Dead leaves that rustle as they fall ; 


Three bare and splintered masts alone : 


Let me present you in their stead 
.Something of our New England earth, 
A tale which, though of no great worth, 


They were the Chimneys Three. 


And onward dashed the Valdemar 


Has still this merit, that it yields 


And lea])ed into the dark ; 


A certain freshness of the fields. 


A denser mist, a colder blast. 


A sweetness as of home-made bread." 


A little shudder, and she had passed 




Right through the Phantom Bark. 


The Student answered : " Be discreet ; 




For if the flour be fresh and sound. 


She cleft in twain the shadowy hulk. 


And if the bread be light and sweet, 


But cleft it unaware ; 


Who careth in what mill 't was ground, 


As when, careering to her nest. 


Or of what oven felt the heat, 


The sea-gull severs with her breast 


Unless, as old Cervantes said, 


The unresisting air. 


You are looking after better bread 




Than any that is made of wheat .'' 


-Again the lightning flashed ; again 
They saw the Carmilhan, 


You know that peoj^le nowadays 
To what is old give little praise ; 


Whole as before in hull and spar ; 


All must be new in prose and verse : 


l^ut now on board of the Valdemar 
.Stood the Klaboterman. 


They want hot Ijread, or something worse, 
Fresh every morning, and half baked ; 




The wholesome bread of yesterday. 


And they all knew their doom was sealed ; 
They knew that death was near ; 


Too .stale for them, is thrown away. 
Nor is their thirst with water slaked." 


Some prayed who never prayed before. 




And some they wept, and some tlicy 


As oft we see the sky in May 


swore. 


Threaten to rain, and yet not rain. 


And some were mute willi fear. 


The Poet's face, before so gay. 



492 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



Was clouded with a look of pain. 
But suddenly brightened up again ; 
And without further let or stay 
He told his tale of yesterday. 



THE POET'S TALE. 

LADY WENTWORTH. 

One hundred years ago, and something 

more, 
In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tav- 
ern door, 
Neat as a pin, and blooming as a rose, 
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows. 
Just as her cuckoo-clock was striking 

nine. 
Above her head, resplendent on the sign, 
The portrait of the Earl of Halifax, 
In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, 
Surveyed at leisure all her varied charms, 
Her cap, her bodice, her white folded 

arms. 
And half resolved, though he was past 

his prime. 
And rather damaged by the lapse of time, 
To'fall down at her feet, and to declare 
The passion that had driven him to 

despair. 
For from his lofty station he had seen 
Stavers, her husband, dressed in bottle- 
green, 
Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, four 

in hand, 
Down the long lane, and out into the 

land, 
And knew that he was far upon the way 
To Ipswich and to Boston on the Bay ! 

Just then the meditations of the Earl 
Were interrupted by a little girl. 
Barefooted, ragged, with neglected hair, 
Eyes full of laughter, neck and shoulders 

bare, 
A thin slip of a girl, like a new moon, 
Sure to be rounded into beauty soon, 
A creature men would worship and adore, 
Though now in mean habiliments she 

bore 
A pail of water, dripping, through the 

street. 
And bathing, as she went, her naked feet. 



It was a pretty picture, full of grace, — 
The slender form, the delicate, thin face ; 
The swaying motion, as she hurried by ; 
The shining feet, the laughter in her eye. 
That o'er her face in ripples gleamed and 

glanced, 
As in her pail the shifting sunbeam 

danced : 
And with uncomon feelings of delight 
The Earl of Halifax beheld the sight. 
Not so dame Stavers, for he heard her say 
These words, or thought he did, as plain 

as day : 
" O Martha Hilton ! Fie ! how dare you 

go 
About the town half dressed, and looking 

so ! " 
At which the gypsy laughed, and straight 

replied : 
" No matter how I look ; I yet shall ride 
In my own chariot, ma'am." And on the 

' child 
The Earl of Halifax benignly smiled, 
As with her heavy burden she passed on, 
Looked back, then turned the corner, and 

was gone. 

What next, upon that memorable day, 

Arrested his attention was a gay 

And brilliant equipage, that flashed and 

spun, 
The silver harness glittering in the sun, 
Outriders with red jackets, lithe and lank, 
Pounding the saddles as they rose and 

sank, 
While all alone within the chariot sat 
A portly person with three-cornered hat, 
A crimson velvet coat, head high in air, 
Gold-headed cane, and nicely powdered 

hair, 
And diamond buckles sparkling at his 

knees. 
Dignified, stately, florid, much at ease. 
Onward the pageant swept, and as it 

passed. 
Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied low and 

fast; 
For this was Governor Wentworth, driv- 
ing down 
To Little Harbor, just beyond the town, 
Where his Great House stood looking 

out to sea, 
A goodly place, where it was good to be. 



THE POET'S TALE. 493 


It was a pleasant mansion, an aliode 
Near and yet hidden from the great high- 


And all these years had Martha Hilton 
served 


road, 
Sequestered among trees, a noble pile, 
Baronial and colonial in its style ; 
Gables and dormer-windows everywhere. 
And stacks of chimneys rising high in air, — 
Pandaean pipes, on which all winds that 


In the Great House, not wholly unob- 
served : 

By day, by night, the silver crescent grew. 

Though hidden by clouds, her light still 
shining through ; 

A maid of all work, whether coarse or 


blew 


fine, 


Made mournful nufcic the whole winter 


A servant who made service seem divine ! 


through. 
Within, unwonted splendors met the eye. 
Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry ; 
Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen 

dogs 
Revelled and roared the Christmas fires 

of logs ; 
Doors opening into darkness unawares, 


Through her each room was fair to look 
upon ; 

The mirrors glistened, and the brasses 
shone. 

The very knocker on the outer door. 

If she but passed, was brighter than be- 
fore. 


Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs ; 
And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames, 
The ancestral Wentworths with Old- 


And now the ceaseless turning of the mill 
Of Time, that never for an hour stands 

still. 


Scripture names. 


Ground out the Governor's sixtieth birth- 


Such was the mansion where the great 


day. 
And powdered his brown hair with silver- 


man dwelt, 
A widower and childless ; and he felt 


gray. 
The robin, the forerunner of the spring. 


The loneliness, the uncongenial gloom, 
That like a presence haunted every room ; 


The bluebird with his jocund carolling, 
The restless swallows building in the 


For though not given to weakness, he 


eaves. 


could feel 
The pain of wounds, that ache because 


The golden buttercups, the grass, the 
leaves, 


they heal. 


The lilacs tossing in the winds of May, 
All welcomed this majestic holiday ! 


The years came and the years went, — 

seven in all, 
And i)assed in cloud and sunshine o'er 


He gave a splendid banquet, served on 

plate, 
Such as became the Governor of the 


the Hall ; 


State, 


The dawns their splendor through its 
chambers shed. 


Who represented England and the King, 
And was magnificent in everything. 


The sunsets flushed its western windows 

red ; 
The snow was on its roofs, the wind, the 

rain ; 


He had invited all his friends and peers, — 
The Pepperels, the Langdons, and the 

Lears, 
The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, and the 


Its woodlands were in leaf and bare 


rest ; 


again ; 
Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs 


For why rejjeat the name of every guest t 
But I must mention one, in bands and 


l)loomed and died, 


gown, 


In the broad river ebbed and flowed the 


The rector there, the Reverend Arthur 


tide, 


Brown 


Ships went to sea, and ships came home 


Of the Established Church; with smiling 


from sea, 


face 


And the slow years sailed by and ceased 


He sat beside the Governor and said 


to be. 


grace ; 



494 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE IAN. 



And then the feast went on, as others do, 
But ended as none other I e'er knew. 

When they had drunk the King, with 

many a cheer. 
The Governor whispered in a servant's 

ear, 
Who disappeared, and presently there 

stood 
Within the room, in perfect womanhood, 
A maiden, modest and yet self-possessed, 
Youthful and beautiful, and simply 

dressed. 
Can this be Martha Hilton ? It must be ! 
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she ! 
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty 

years, 
How ladylike, how queenlike she ap- 
pears ; 
The pale, thin crescent of the clays gone 

by 
Is Dian now in all her majesty ! 
Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was 

there, 
Until the Governor, rising from his chair. 
Played slightly with his rufHes, then 

looked down, 
And said unto the Reverend Arthur 

Brown : 
" This is my birthday : it shall likewise be 
My wedding-day ; and you shall marry 

me ! " 

The listening guests were greatly mysti- 
fied. 

None more so than the rector, who re- 
plied : 

" Marry you 1 Yes, that were a pleasant 
task, 

Your Excellency ; but to whom ? I ask." 

The Governor answered : "To this lady 
here " ; 

And beckoned Martha Hilton to draw 
near. 

She came and stood, all blushes, at his 
side. 

The rector paused. The impatient Gov- 
ernor cried : 

" This is the lady ; do you hesitate ? 

Then I command you as Chief Magis- 
trate." 

The rector read the service loud and 
clear : 



" Dearly beloved, we are gathered here," 
And so on to the end. At his command 
On the fourth finger of her fair left hand 
The Governor placed the ring ; and that 

was all : 
Martha was Lady Wentworth of the 

Hall ! 



INTEIiLUDE. 

Well pleased the audience heard the 

tale. 
The Theologian said : " Indeed, 
To praise you there is little need ; 
One almost hears the farmer's flail 
Thresh out your wheat, nor does there fail 
A certain freshness, as you said, 
And sweetness as of home-made bread. 
But not less sweet and not less fresh 
Are many legends that I know. 
Writ by the monks of long ago. 
Who loved to mortify the flesh. 
So that the soul might purer grow, 
And rise to a diviner state ; 
And one of these — perhaps of all 
Most beautiful — I now recall. 
And with permission will narrate ; 
Hoping thereby to make amends 
For that grim tragedy of mine, 
As strong and black as Spanish wine, 
I told last night, and wish almost 
It had remained untold, my friends ; 
For Torquemada's awful ghost 
Came to me in the dreams I dreamed, 
And in the darkness glared and gleamed 
Like a great lighthouse on the coast." 

The Student laughing said : " Far more 

Like to some dismal fire of bale 

Flaring portentous on a hill ; 

Or torches lighted on a shore 

By wreckers in a midnight gale. 

No matter ; be it as you will. 

Only go forward with your tale." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

" Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled ! " 
That is what the Vision said. 



THE THEOLOG/AX'S TALE. 495 


In his chamber all alone, 


.•\nil their almoner was he 


Kneeling on the floor of stone, 


Wli,o upon his bended knee. 


Prayed the Monk in deep contrition 


Rapt in silent ecstasy 


For his sins of indecision, 


Of divinest self-surrender. 


Prayed for greater self-denial 


Saw the Vision and the Sjjlendor. 


In temptation and in trial ; 


Deep distress and hesitation 


It was noonday by the dial, 


Mingled with his adoration ; 


And the Monk was all alone. 


Should he go, or should he stay.' 




Should he leave the poor to wait 


Suddenly, as if it lightened, 


Hungry at the convent gate. 


An unwonted splendor brightened 


Till the Vision passed away ? 


All within him and without him 


Should he slight his radiant guest, 


In that narrow cell of stone ; 


Slight this visitant celestial. 


And he saw the Blessed Vision 


For a crowd of ragged, bestial 


Of our Lord, with light Elysian 


Beggars at the convent gate .' 


Like a vesture wrapped about him. 


Would the Vision there remain .' 


Like a garment round him thrown. 


Would the Vision come again ? 




Then a voice within his breast 


Not as crucified and slain, 


Whispered, audible and clear 


Not in agonies of pain, 


As if to the outward ear : 


Not with bleeding hands and feet. 


" Do thy duty ; that is best ; 


Did the Monk his Master see ; 


Leave unto thy Lord the rest ! " 


But as in the village street, 




In the house or harvest-field. 


.Straightway to his feet he started, 


Halt and lame and blind he healed, 


And with longing look intent 


When he walked in Galilee. 


On the Blessed Vision bent, 




Slowly from his cell departed. 


In an attitude imploring. 


.Slowly on his errand went. 


Hands upon his bosom crossed, 




Wondering, worshipping, adoring, 


At the gate the poor were waiting. 


Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 


Looking through the iron grating, 


Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, 


With that terror in the eye 


Who am I, that thus thou deignest 


That is only seen in those 


To reveal thyself to me .' 


Who amid their wants and woes 


Who am I, that from the centre 


Hear the sound of doors that close. 


Of thy glory thou shouldst enter 


And of feet that pass them by ; 


This poor cell, my guest to be .' 


Grown familiar with disfavor. 




Grown familiar with the savor 


Then amid his exaltation, 


Of the bread by which men die ! 


Loud the convent bell appalling. 


But to-day, they knew not why, 


From its belfry calling, calling. 


Like the gate of Paradise 


Rang through court and corridor 


Seemed the convent gate to rise, 


With persistent iteration 


Like a sacrament divine 


He had never heard before. 


Seemed to them the bread and wine. 


It was now the appointed hour 


In his heart the Monk was praying, 


When alike in shine or shower. 


Thinking of the homeless poor, 


Winter's cold or summer's heat, 


What they suffer and endure ; 


To the convent portals came 


What we see not, what we see ; 


All the blind and halt and lame. 


And the inward voice was saying : 


All the beggars of the street. 


" Whatsoever thing thou doest 


For their daily dole of food 


To the least of mine and lowest, 


Dealt them by the brotherhood ; 


That thou doest unto me I " 



49 6 " TALES OF A IVAYSIDE INN. 


Unto me ! but had the Vision 


Thus the Sicilian cried, and went 


Come to him in beggar's clothing, 


Forthwith to seek his missing star, 


Come a mendicant imploring, 


But did not find him in the bar. 


Would he then have knelt adoring, 


A place that landlords most frequent, 


Or have listened with derision, 


Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, 


And have turned away with loathing ? 


Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall ; 




It was in vain to ask or call, 


Thus his conscience put the question, 


There were no tidings of the Squire. 


Full of troublesome suggestion. 




As at length, with hurried pace, 


So he came back with downcast head, 


Towards his cell he turned his face. 


Exclaiming : " Well, our bashful host 


And beheld the convent bright 


Hath surely given up the ghost. 


With a supernatural light. 


Another proverb says the dead 


Like a luminous cloud expanding 


Can tell no tales ; and that is true. 


Over floor and wall and ceiling. 


It follows, then, that one of you 




Must tell a story in his stead. 


But he paused with awe-struck feeling 


You must," he to the Student said, 


At the threshold of his door, 


" Who know so many of the best, 


For the Vision still was standing 


And tell them better than the rest." 


As he left it there before. 




When the convent bell appalling. 


Straight, by these flattering words be- 


From its belfry calling, calling. 


guiled. 


Summoned him to feed the poor. 


The Student, happy as a child 


Through the long hour intervening 


When he is called a little man, 


It had waited his return, 


Assumed the double task imposed, 


And he felt his bosom burn. 


And without more ado unclosed 


Comprehending all the meaning. 


His smiling lips, and thus began. 


When the Blessed Vision said. 




" Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled ! " 






THE STUDENT'S SECOND TALE. 


INTERLUDE. 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


All praised the Legend more or less ; 


Baron Castine of St. Castine 


Some liked the moral, some the verse ; 


Has left his chateau in the Pyrenees, 


Some thought it better, and some worse 


And sailed across the western seas. 


Than other legends of the past ; 


When he went away from his fair demesne 


Until, with ill-concealed distress 


The birds were building, the woods were 


At all their cavilling, at last 


green ; 


The Theologian gravely said : 


And now the winds of winter blow 


" The Spanish proverb, then, is right ; 


Round the turrets of the old chateau, 


Consult your friends on what you do. 


The birds are silent and unseen. 


And one will say that it is white, 


The leaves lie dead in the ravine. 


And others say that it is red." 


And the Pyrenees are white with snow. 


And " Amen ! " quoth the Spanish Jew. 






His father, lonely, old, and gray, 


" Six stories told ! We must have seven, 


Sits by the fireside day by day. 


A cluster like the Pleiades, 


Thinking ever one thought of care ; 


And lo ! it happens, as with these, 


Through the southern windows, narrow 


That one is missing from our heaven. 


and tall. 


Where is the Landlord .' Bring him here ; 


The sun shines into the ancient hall. 


Let the Lost Pleiad reappear." 


And makes a glory round his hair. 



THE STUDENTS 


SECOND TALE. 497 


The house-dog, stretched beneath his 


To the one sad thought that haunts his 


chair, 


brain, 


Groans in his sleep as if in pain. 


" Are there any tidings from over sea .' 


Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again, 


Ah, why has that wild boy gone from 


So silent is it everywhere, — 


me .!"' 


So silent you can hear the mouse 


And the Curate answers, looking down. 


Run and rummage along the beams 


ILirmless and docile as a lamb. 


Behind the wainscot of the wall ; 


" Young blood ! young blood ! It must 


And the old man rouses from his dreams, 


so be ! * 


And wanders restless through the house. 


And draws from the pocket of his gown 


As if he heard strange voices call. 


A handkerchief like an oriflamb. 




And wipes his spectacles, and they play 


His footsteps echo along the floor 


Their little game of lansquenet 


Of a distant passage, and pause awhile ; 


In silence for an hour or so, 


He is standing by an open door 


Till the clock at nine strikes loud and 


Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile. 


clear 


Into the room of his absent son. 


From the village lying asleep below. 


There is the bed on which he lay. 


And across the courtyard, into the dark 


There are the pictures bright and gay. 


Of the winding pathway in the park. 


Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas ; 


Curate and lantern disappear. 


There are his powder-flask and gun. 


And darkness reigns in the old chateau. 


And his hunting-knives in shape of a 




fan ; 


The ship has come back from over sea. 


The chair by the window where he sat, 


She has been signalled from below. 


With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat. 


And into the harbor of Bordeau.v 


Looking out on the Pyrenees, 


She sails with her gallant company. 


Looking out on Mount Marbore 


But among them is nowhere seen 


And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan. 


The brave young Baron of St. Castine ; 


Ah me J he turns away and sighs ; 


He hath tarried behind, I ween, 


There is a mist before his eyes. 


In the beautiful land of Acadie ! 


At night, whatever the weather l)e, 


And the father paces to and fro 


Wind or rain or starry heaven. 


Through the chambers of the old chateau. 


Just as the clock is striking seven, 


Waiting, waiting to hear the hum 


Those who look from the windows see 


Of wheels on the road that runs below. 


The village Curate, with lantern and 


Of servants hurrying here and there. 


maid, 


The voice in the courtyard, the step on 


Come through the gateway from the park 


the stair, 


And cross the courtyard damp and 


Waiting for some one who doth not 


dark, — 


come ! 


A ring of light in a ring of shade. 


But letters there are, which the old man 




reads 


And now at the old man's side he stands. 


To the Curate, when he comes at night. 


His voice is cheery, his heart expands, 


Word by word, as an acolyte 


He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze 


Repeats his prayers and tells his beads ; 


Of the fire of fagots, about old days. 


Letters full of the rolling sea, 


And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde, 


Full of a young man's joy to be 


And the Cardinal's nieces fair and fond. 


Abroad in the world, alone and free ; 


And what they did, and what they said, 


Full of adventures and wonderful scenes 


When they heard his Eminence was dead. 


Of hunting the deer through forests vast 




In the royal grant of Pierre du Cast ; 


And after a pause the old man says. 


Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines ; 


Mis mind still coming back again 
32 


Of Madocawando the Indian chief. 



498 



TALES OF A IVA YSIDE INN. 



And his daughters, glorious as queens, 

And beautiful beyond belief ; 

And so soft the tones of their native 

tongue. 
The words are not spoken, they are sung ! 

And the Curate listens, and smiling says : 
" Ah yes, dear friend ! in our young days 
We should have liked to hunt the deer 
All day amid those forest scenes. 
And to sleep in the tents of the Tarra- 

tines ; 
But now it is better sitting here 
Within four walls, and without the fear 
Of losing our hearts to Indian queens ; 
For man is fire and woman is tow, 
And the Somebody comes and begins to 

blow." 
Then a gleam of distrust and vague sur- 
mise 
Shines in the father's gentle eyes. 
As fire-light on a window-pan^ 
Glimmers and vanishes again ; 
But naught he answers ; he only sighs, 
And for a moment bows his head ; 
Then, as their custom is, they play 
Their little game of lansquenet. 
And another day is with the dead. 

Another day, and many a day 

And many a week and month depart. 

When a fatal letter wings its way 

Across the sea, like a bird of prey. 

And strikes and tears the old man's 

heart. 
Lo ! the young Baron of St. Castine, 
Swift as the wind is, and as wild. 
Has married a dusky Tarratine, 
Has married Madocawando's child ! 

The letter drops from the father's hand ; 
Though the sinews of his heart are wrung. 
He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer. 
No malediction falls from his tongue ; 
But his stately figure, erect and grand, 
Bends and sinks like a column of sand 
In the whirlwind of his great despair. 
Dying, yes, dying ! His latest breath 
Of parley at the door of death 
Is a blessing on his wayward son. 
Lower and lower on his breast 
Sinks his gray head ; he is at rest ; 
No longer he waits for any one. 



For many a year the old chateau 
Lies tenantless and desolate ; 
Rank grasses in the courtyard grow. 
About its gables caws the crow ; 
Only the porter at the gate 
Is left to guard it, and to wait 
The coming of the rightful heir ; 
No other life or sound is there ; 
No more the Curate comes at night. 
No more is seen the unsteady light. 
Threading the alleys of the park ; 
The windows of the hall are dark. 
The chambers dreary, cold, and bare ! 

At length, at last, when the winter is past, 
And birds are building, and woods are 

green. 
With flying skirts is the Curate seen 
Speeding along the woodland way, 
Humming gayly, " No day is so long 
But it comes at last to vesper-song." 
He stops at the porter's lodge to say 
That at last the Baron of St. Castine 
Is coming home with his Indian queen, 
Is coming without a week's delay ; 
And all the house must be swept and 

clean, 
And all things set in good array ! 
And the solemn porter shakes his head ; 
And the answer he makes is : " Lacka- 

day ! 
We will see, as the blind man said ! " 

Alert since first the day began. 
The cock upon the village church 
Looks northward from his airy perch, 
As if beyond the ken of man 
To see the ships come sailing on, 
And pass the Isle of Oleron, 
And pass the Tower of Cordouan. 

In the church below is cold in clay 

The heart that would have leaped for 

joy — 
O tender heart of truth and trust ! — 
To see the coming of that day ; 
In the church below the lips are dust ; 
Dust are the hands, and dust the feet. 
That would have been so swift to meet 
The coming of that wayward boy. 

At night the front of the old chateau 
Is a blaze of light above and below ; 



THE STUDENT S 


SECOND TALE. 499 


There 's a sound of wheels and hoofs in 


And stare to see the Baroness pass 


the street, 


On Sunday morning to early Mass ; 


A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet, 


And when she kneeleth down to pray, 


Bells are ringing, and horns are blown. 


They wonder, and whisper together, and 


And the Baron hath come again to his 


say. 


own. 


" Surely this is no heathen lass ! " 


The Curate is waiting in the hall, 


And in course of time they learn to bless 


-Most eager and alive of all 


The Baron and the Baroness. 


To welcome the Baron and Baroness ; 




But his mind is full of vague distress, 


And in course of time the Curate learns 


For he hath read in Jesuit hooks 


A secret so dreadful, that by turns 


Of those children of the wilderness. 


He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns. 


And now, good, simple man ! he looks 


The Baron at confession hath said, 


To see a painted savage stride 


That though this woman be his wife, 


Into the room, with shoulders bare, 


He hath wed her as the Indians wed. 


And eagle feathers in her hair, 


He hath bought her for a gun and a knife ! 


And around her a robe of panther's hide. 


And the Curate replies : " O profligate, 




O Prodigal Son ! return once more 


Instead, he beholds with secret shame 


To the open arms and the open door 


A form of beauty undefined. 


Of the Church, or ever it be too late. 


A loveliness without a name, 


Thank God, thy father did not live 


Not of degree, but more of kind ; 


To see what he could not forgive ; 


Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall. 


On thee, so reckless and perverse. 


But a new mingling of them all. 


He left his blessing, not his curse. 


Yes, beautiful beyond belief, 


But the nearer the dawn the darker the 


Transfigured and transfused, he sees 


night. 


The lady of the Pyrenees, 


.■\ncl by going wrong all things come 


The daughter of the Indian chief. 


right ; 


Beneath the shadow of her hair 


Things have been mended that were 


The gold-bronze color of the skin 


worse, 


Seems lighted by a fire within, 


And the worse, the nearer they are to 


As when a burst of sunlight shines 


mend. 


Beneath a sombre grove of pines, — 


For the sake of the living and the dead, 


A dusky splendor in the air. 


Thou shalt be wed as Christians wed. 


The two small hands, that now are 


And all things come to a happy end." 


pressed 




In his, seem made to be caressed, 


O sun, that followest the night, 


They lie so warm and soft and still, 


In yon blue sky, serene and pure. 


Like birds half hidden in a nest. 


And pourest thine impartial light 


Trustful, and innocent of ill. 


Alike on mountain and on moor, 


And ah ! he cannot believe his ears 


Pause for a moment in thy course, 


When her melodious voice he hears 


And bless the bridegroom and the bride ! 


Speaking his native Gascon tongue ; 


O Gave, that from thy hidden source 


The words she utters seem to be 


In yon mysterious mountain-side 


Part of some poem of Goudouli, 


Pursuest thy wandering way alone. 


They are not spoken, they are sung ! 


And leaping down its steps of stone. 


And the Baron smiles, and says, " You 


Along the meadow-lands demure 


see. 


Stcalest away to the A dour, 


I told you but the simple truth ; 


Pause for a moment in thy course 


Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth ! " 


To bless the bridegroom and the bride ! 


Down in the village day by day 


The choir is singing the matin song, 


The people gossip in their way, 


The doors of the church arc opened wide. 



500 



TALES OF A iVA YSIDE INN. 



The people crowd, and press, and throng 
To see the bridegroom and the bride. 
They enter and pass along the nave ; 
They stand upon the father's grave ; 
The bells are ringing soft and slow ; 
The living above and the dead below 
Give their blessing on one and twain ; 
The warm wind blows from the hills of 

Spain, 
The birds are building, the leaves are 

green, 
And Baron Castine of St. Castine 
Hath come at last to his own again. 



FINALE. 

" Nunc plmidite ! " the Student cried. 
When he had finished ; " now applaud. 
As Roman actors used to say 
At the conclusion of a play ; " 
And rose, and spread his hands abroad, 
And smiling bowed from side to side, 
As one who bears the palm away. 
And generous was the applause and 

loud. 
But less for him than for the sun, 
That even as the tale was done 
Burst from its canopy of cloud, 
And lit the landscape with the blaze 
Of afternoon on autumn days, 



And filled the room with light, and made 
The fire of logs a painted shade. 

A sudden wind from out the west 
Blew all its trumpets loud and shrill ; 
The windows rattled with the blast, 
The oak-trees shouted as it passed, 
And straight, as if by fear possessed. 
The cloud encampment on the hill 
Broke up, and fluttering flag and tent 
Vanished into the firmament. 
And down the valley fled amain 
The rear of the retreating rain. 

Only far up in the blue sky 

A mass of clouds, like drifted snow 

Suffused with a faint Alpine glow. 

Was heaped together, vast and high, 

On which a shattered rainbow hung, 

Not rising like the ruined arch 

Of some aerial aqueduct. 

But like a roseate garland plucked 

From an Olympian god, and flung 

Aside in his triumphal march. 

Like prisoners from their dungeon gloom, 
Like birds escaping from a snare. 
Like school-boys at the hour of play. 
All left at once the pent-up room. 
And rushed into the open air ; 
And no more tales were told that day. 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 

PART THIRD. 



PRELUDE. 

The evening came ; the golden vane 
A moment in the sunset glanced, 
Then darkened, and then gleamed again, 
As from the east the moon advanced 
And touched it with a softer light ; 
While underneath, with fiowing mane, 
Upon the sign the Red Horse pranced, 
And galloped forth into the night. 

But brighter than the afternoon 
That followed the dark day of rain. 
And brighter than the golden vane 
That glistened in the rising moon, 
Within the ruddy fire-light gleamed ; 
And every separate window-pane, 
Backed by the outer darkness, showed 
A mirror, where the flamelets gleamed 
And flickered to and fro, and seemed 
A bonfire lighted in the road. 

Amid the hospitable glow 
Like an old actor on the stage, 
With the uncertain voice of age, 
The singing chimney chanted low 
The homely songs of long ago. 

The voice that Ossian heard of yore. 

When midnight winds were in his hall ; 

A ghostly and appealing call, 

A sound of days that are no more ! 

And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, 

And listened to the sound, and knew 

The passing of the airy hosts. 

The gray and misty cloud of ghosts 

fn their interminable flight ; 

And listening muttered in his beard. 

With accent indistinct and weird, 

" Who are ye, children of the Night .' " 

Beholding his mysterious face, 
"Tell me," the gay Sicilian said, 
" Why was it that in breaking brcatl 



At supper, you bent down your head 
And, musing, paused a little space, 
As one who says a silent grace ? " 

The Jew replied, with solemn air, 

" I said the Manichrean's prayer. 

It was his faith, — perhaps is mine, — 

That life in all its forms is one. 

And that its secret conduits run 

Unseen, ])ut in unbroken line. 

From the great fountain-head divine 

Through man and beast, through grain 

and grass. 
Howe'er we struggle, strive, and cry, 
From death there can be no escape. 
And no escape from life, alas ! 
Because we cannot die, but pass 
From one into another shape : 
It is but into life we die. 

" Therefore the Manichrean said 
This simple prayer on breaking bread. 
Lest he with hasty hand or knife 
Might wound the incarcerated life. 
The soul in things that we call dead : 
' I did not reap thee, did not bind thee, 
I did not thrash thee, did not grind thee, 
Nor did I in the oven bake thee ! 
It was not I, it was another 
Did these things unto thee, O brother ; 
I only have thee, hold thee, break thee 1 ' " 

" That birds have souls I can concede,"' 
The poet cried, with glowing cheeks ; 
" The flocks that from their beds of reed 
Uprising north or southward fly, 
And flying write upon the sky 
The biforked letter of the (Ireeks, 
As hath been said by Rncellai ; 
All birds that sing or chirp or cry, 
Even those ynigratory bands. 
The minor poets of the air, 
The plover, peep, and sanderling, 
That hardly can be said to sing, 



502 



TALES OF A IVA YSIDE INN. 



But pipe along the barren sands, — 
All these have souls akin to ours ; 
So hath the lovely race of flowers : 
Thus much I grant, but nothing more. 
The rusty hinges of a door 
Are not alive because they creak ; 
This chimney, with its dreary roar, 
These rattling windows, do not speak ! ' 
"To me they speak," the Jew replied ; 
" And in the sounds that sink and soar, 
I hear the voices of a tide 
That breaks upon an unknown shore ! " 



Here the Sicilian interfered : 

" That was your dream, then, as you 

dozed 
A moment since, with eyes half-closed. 
And murmured something in your 

beard." 
The Hebrew smiled, and answered, " Nay; 
Not that, but something very near ; 
Like, and yet not the same, may seem 
The vision of my waking dream ; 
Before it wholly dies away, 
Listen to me, and you shall hear." 




THE SPANISH 


JEW'S TALE. 503 


THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE. 


A silken banner o'er the walls upreared, 




A purple cloud, that gleamed and disap- 


AZRAEL. 


peared. 




Then said the Angel, smiling : " If this 


King Solomon, before his palace gate 


man 


At evening, on the pavement tessellate 
Was walking with a stranger from the 

East, 
Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast, 


Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, 
Thou hast done well in listening to his 

prayer ; 
I was upon my way to seek him there." 


The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned 




man, 




And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan. 




And as they walked the guest became 


INTERLUDE. 


aware 




Of a white figure in the twilight air, 


" Edrehi, forbear to-night 


Gazing intent, as one who with surprise 
His form and features seemed to recog- 


Your ghostly legends of affright, 
And let the Talmud rest in peace ; 


nize ; 
And in a whisper to the king he said : 


S])are us your dismal tales of death 
That almost take away one's breath ; 


" What is yon shape, that, pallid as the 
dead. 


So doing, may your tribe increase." 


Is watching me, as if he sought to trace 


Thus the Sicilian said ; then went 


In the dim light the features of my face ? " 


And on the spinet's rattling keys 
Played Marianina, like a breeze 


The king looked, and replied : " I know 
him well ; 


From Naples and the Southern seas, 
That brings us the delicious scent 


It is the Angel men call Azrael, 


Of citron and of orange trees, 


'T is the Death Angel ; what hast thou to 


And memories of soft days of ease 


fear ? " 


At Capri and Amalfi s])ent. 


And the guest answered : " Lest he 




should come near, 
And speak to me, and take away my 
breath ! 


" Not so," the eager Poet said ; 
" At least, not so before I tell 
The story of my Azrael, 


Save me from Azrael, save me from 
death ! 


An angel mortal as ourselves, 
Which in an ancient tome I found 


O king, that hast dominion o'er the 
wind. 


Upon a convent's dusty shelves. 
Chained with an iron chain, and bound 


Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind." 


In parchment, and with clasps of brass, 
Lest from its prison, some dark day. 


The king gazed upward at the cloudless 
sky,' 


It might be stolen or steal away. 

While the good friars were singing mass. 


Whis])ered a word, and raised his hand 

on high, 
And lo ! the signet-ring of chrysoprase 
On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze 
With hidden fire, and rushing from the 

west 


" It is a tale of Charlemagne, 
When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers 
And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, 
With lightning flaming through its 
showers. 


There came a mighty wind, and seized 

the guest 
And lifted him from earth, and on they 

passed. 
His shining garments streaming in the 

blast, 


He swept across the Lombard j^lain. 
Beleaguering with his warlike train 
Pavi'a, the country's pride and boast, 
The City of the Hundred Towers." 
Thus heralded the tale began, 
And thus in sober measure ran. 



504 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



THE POET'S TALE. 

CHARLEMAGNE. 

Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 

King of the Lombards, on a lofty tower 

Stood gazing northward o'er the rolling 

plains, 
League after league of harvests, to the 

foot 
Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw ap- 
proach 
A mighty army, thronging all the roads 
That led into the city. And the King 
Said unto Olger, who had passed his 

youth 
As hostage at the court of France, and 

knew 
The Emperor's form and face : " Is 

Charlemagne 
Among that host t " And Olger an- 
swered : " No." 

And still the innumerable multitude 
Flowed onward and increased, until the 

King 
Cried in amazement: "Surely Charle- 
magne 
Is coming in the midst of all these 

knights ! " 
And Olger answered slowly : " No ; not 

yet ; 
He will not come so soon." Then much 

disturbed 
King Desiderio asked : " What shall we 

do. 
If he approach with a still greater army ? " 
And Olger answered : " When he shall 

appear, 
You will behold what manner of man he 

is ; 
But what will then befall us I know not." 

Then came the guard that never knew 

repose. 
The Paladins of France ; and at the 

sight 
The Lombard King o'ercome with terror 

cried : 
" This must be Charlemagne ! " and as 

before 
Did Olger answer : " No ; not yet, not 

yet." 



And then appeared in panoply complete 
The Bishops and the Abbots and the 

Priests 
Of the imperial chapel, and the Counts ; 
And Desiderio could no more endure 
The light of day, nor yet encounter 

death. 
But sobbed aloud and said : " Let us go 

down 
And hide us in the bosom of the earth, 
Far from the sight and anger of a foe 
So terrible as this ! " And Olger said : 
" When you behold the harvests in the 

fields 
Shaking with fear, the Po and the Ticino 
Lashing the city walls with iron waves, 
Then may you know that Charlemagne is 

come." 
And even as he spake, in the northwest, 
Lo ! there uprose a black and threatening 

cloud. 
Out of whose bosom flashed the light of 

arms 
Upon the people pent up in the city ; 
A light more terrible than any darkness ; 
And Charlemagne appeared ; — a Man of 

Iron ! 

His helmet was of iron, and his gloves 
Of iron, and his breastplate and his 

greaves 
And tassets were of iron, and his shield. 
In his left hand he held an iron spear. 
In his right hand his sword invincible. 
The horse he rode on had the strength of 

iron, 
And color of iron. All who went before 

him. 
Beside him and behind him, his whole 

host. 
Were armed with iron, and their hearts 

within them 
Were stronger than the armor that they 

wore. 
The fields and all the roads were filled 

with iron. 
And points of iron glistened in the sun 
And shed a terror through the city streets. 
This at a single glance Olger the Dane 
Saw from the tower, and turning to the 

King 
Exclaimed in haste : " Behold ! this is 

the man 



THE STUDENTS TALE. 505 


You looked for with such eagerness ! " 


Had in his mind the Anabasis, 


and then 


Where Xenophon describes the advance 


Fell as one dead at Desiderio's feet. 


Of Artaxerxes to the fight ; 




At first the low gray cloud of dust, 




And then a blackness o'er the fields 


INTERLUDE. 


As of a passing thunder-gust, 




Then flash of brazen armor bright, 


Well pleased all listened to the tale, 


And ranks of men, and spears up-thrust. 


That drew, the Student said, its pith 


Bowmen and troops with wicker shields. 


And marrow from the ancient myth 


And cavalry equipped in white, 


Of some one with an iron flail ; 


And chariots ranged in front of these 


Or that portentous Man of Brass 


With scythes upon their axle-trees." 


Hephaestus made in days of yore, 




Who stalked about the Cretan shore, 


To this the Student answered : " Well, 


And saw the ships appear and pass, 


I also have a tale to tell 


And threw stones at the Argonauts, 


Of Charlemagne ; a tale that throws 


Being filled with indiscriminate ire 


A softer light, more tinged with rose. 


That tangled and perplexed his thoughts ; 


Than your grim apparition cast 


But, like a hospitable host, 


Upon the darkness of the past. 


When strangers landed on the coast. 


Listen, and hear in English rhyme 


Heated himself red-hot with fire, 


What the good Monk of Lauresheim 


And hugged them in his arms, and 


Gives as the gossip of his time, 


pressed 


In mediaeval Latin prose." 


Their bodies to his burning breast. 




The Poet answered : " No, not thus 


THE STUDENT'S TALE. 


The legend rose ; it sprang at first 




Out of the hunger and the thirst 


EMM.\ AND EGINHARD. 


In all men for the marvellous. 




And thus it filled and satisfied 


When Alcuin taught the sons of Char- 


The imagination of mankind. 


lemagne, 


And this ideal to the mind 


In the free schools of Aix, how kings 


Was truer than historic fact. 


should reign, 


Fancy enlarged and multiplied 


And with them taught the children of the 


The terrors of the awful name 


poor 


Of Charlemagne, till he became 


How subjects should be patient and en- 


Armipotent in every act. 


dure. 


And, clothed in mystery, appeared 


He touched the lips of some, as best befit. 


Not what men saw, but what they feared. 


With honey from the hives of Holy Writ ; 




Others intoxicated with the wine 


Beside, unless my memory fail. 


Of ancient history, sweet but less divine ; 


Your some one with an iron flail 


Some with the wholesome fruits of gram- 


Is not an ancient myth at all. 


mar fed ; 


But comes much later on the scene 


Others with mysteries of the stars o'er- 


As Talus in the Faerie Queene, 


head. 


The iron groom of Artegall, 


That hang suspended in the vaultcdsky 


Who threshed out falsehood and deceit. 


Like lamps in some fair palace vast and 


And truth upheld, and righted wrong, 


high. 


As was, as is the swallow, fleet, 




And as the lion is, was strong." 


In sooth, it was a pleasant sight to see 




That Saxon monk, wit*li hood and rosary. 


The Theologian said : " Perchance 


With inkhorn at his belt, and pen and 


Your chronicler in writing this 


book. 



5o6 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



And mingled love and reverence in his 

look, 
Or hear the cloister and the court repeat 
The measured footfalls of his sandaled 

feet, 
Or watch him with the pupils of his 

school, 
Gentle of speech, but absolute of rule. 
Among them, always earliest in his place. 
Was Eginhard, a youth of Frankish race. 
Whose face was bright with flashes that 

forerun 
The splendors of a yet unrisen sun. 
To him all things were possible, and 

seemed 
Not what he had accomplished, but had 

dreamed. 
And what were tasks to others were his 

play. 
The pastime of an idle holiday. 

Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael's, said, 
With many a shrug and shaking of the 

head, 
Surely some demon must possess the lad, 
Who showed more wit than ever school- 
boy had. 
And learned his Trivium thus without 

the rod ; 
But Alcuin said it was the grace of God. 

Thus he grew up, in Logic point-device. 
Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhetoric 

nice ; 
Science of Numbers, Geometric art, 
And lore of Stars, and Music knew by 

heart ; 
A Minnesinger, long before the times 
Of those who sang their love in Suabian 

rhymes. 

The Emperor, when he heard this good 

report 
Of Eginhard much buzzed about the 

court. 
Said to himself, " This stripling seems to 

be 
Purposely sent into the world for me ; 
He shall become my scribe, and shall be 

schooled 
In all the arts whereby the world is 

ruled." 
Thus did the gentle Eginhard attain 



To honor in the court of Charlemagne ; 
Became the sovereign's favorite, his right 

hand, 
So that his fame was great in all the land. 
And all men loved him for his modest 

grace 
And comeliness of figure and of face. 
An inmate of the palace, yet recluse, 
A man of books, yet sacred from abuse 
Among the armed knights with spur on 

heel, 
The tramp of horses and the clang of 

steel ; 
And as the Emperor promised he was 

schooled 
In all the arts by which the world is 

ruled. 
But the one art supreme, whose law is 

fate, 
The Emperor never dreamed of till too 

late. 

Home from her convent to the palace 

came 
The lovely Princess Emma, whose sweet 

name. 
Whispered by seneschal or sung by bard. 
Had often touched the soul of Eginhard. 
He saw her from his window, as in state 
She came, by knights attended through 

the gate ; 
He saw her at the banquet of that day, 
Fresh as the morn, and beautiful as May ; 
He saw her in the garden, as she strayed 
Among the flowers of summer with her 

maid, 
And said to him, " O Eginhard, disclose 
The meaning and the mystery of the 

rose ; " 
And trembling he made answer: "In 

good sooth. 
Its mystery is love, its meaning youth ! " 

How can I tell the signals and the signs 
By which one heart another heart divines ? 
How can I tell the many thousand ways 
By which it keeps the secret it betrays ? 

O mystery of love ! O strange romance ! 
Among the Peers and Paladins of France, 
Shining in steel, and prancing on gay 

steeds. 
Noble by birth, yet nobler by great deeds. 



THE STL' DENTS TALE. 507 


The Princess Emma had no words nor 


They saw the jialace courtyard white with 


looks 


snow. 


But for this clerk, this man of thought 


And, placid as a nun, the moon on high 


and books. 


Gazing from cloudy cloisters of the sky. 




" Alas ! " he said, " how hide the fatal 


The summer passed, the autumn came ; 


line 


the stalks 


Of footprints leading from thy door to 


Of lilies blackened in the garden walks ; 


mine. 


The leaves fell, russet-golden and blood- 


And none returning!" Ah, he little knew 


red, 


What woman's wit, when put to proof, 


Love-letters thought the poet fancy-led, 


can do ! 


Or Jove descending in a shower of gold 




Into the lap of Danae of old ; 


That night the Emperor, sleepless with 


For poets cherish many a strange conceit, 


the cares 


And love transmutes all nature by its heat. 


And troubles that attend on state affairs. 




Had risen before the dawn, and musing 


No more the garden lessons, nor the dark 


gazed 


And hurried meetings in the twilight 


Into the silent night, as one amazed 


park ; 


To see the calm that reigned o'er all su- 


But now the studious lamp, and the de- 


preme. 


lights 


When his own reign was but a troubled 


Of firesides in the silent winter nights. 


dream. 


And watching from his window hour hy 


The moon lit up the gables capped with 


hour 


snow. 


The light that burned in Princess Emma's 


And the white roofs, and half the court 


tower. 


bek)w. 




And he beheld a form, that seemed to 


At length one night, while musing bv the 


cower 


^fire. 


Beneath a burden, come from Emma's 


O'ercome at last by his insane desire, — 


tower, — 


For what will reckless love not do and 


A woman, who upon her shoulders bore 


dare ? — 


Clerk Eginhard to his own private door. 


He crossed the court, and climbed the 


And then returned in haste, but still es- 


winding stair, 


sayed 


With some feigned message in the Em- 


To tread the footprints she herself had 


peror's name ; 


made ; 


But when he to the lady's presence came 


And as she passed across the lighted 


He knelt down at her feet, until she laid 


space. 


Her hand upon him, like a naked blade. 


The Emjieror saw his daughter Emma's 


And whispered in his ear : " Arise, Sir 


face ! 


Knight, 




To my heart's level, O my heart's de- 


He started not ; he did not speak or moan. 


light." 


But seemed as one who hath been turned 




to stone ; 


And there he lingered till the crowing 


And stood there like a statue, nor awoke 


cock, 


Out of his trance of pain, till morning 


The Alectryon of the farmyard and the 


broke, 


flock, 


Till the stars faded, and the moon went 


Sang his aubade with lusty voice and 


down. 


clear. 


And o'er the towers and stccjiles of the 


To tell the sleeping world that dawn was 


town 


near. 


Came the gray daylight ; then the sun. 


And then they parted ; but at parting, lo ! 


who took 



5o8 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



The empire of the world with sovereign 
look, 

Suffusing with a soft and golden glow 

All the dead landscape in its shroud of 
snow, 

Touching with flame the tapering chapel 
spires, 

Windows and roofs, and smoke of house- 
hold fires. 

And kindling park and palace as he came ; 

The stork's nest on the chimney seemed 
in flame. 

And thus he stood till Eginhard ap- 
peared. 

Demure and modest with his comely 
beard 

And flowing flaxen tresses, come to ask, 

As was his wont, the day's appointed task. 

The Emperor looked upon him with a 
smile. 

And gently said : " My son, wait yet 
awhile ; 

This hour my council meets upon some 
great 

And very urgent business of the state. 

Come back within the hour. On thy re- 
turn 

The work appointed for thee shalt thou 
learn." 

Having dismissed this gallant Trouba- 
dour, 

He summoned straight his council, and 
secure 

And steadfast in his purpose, from the 
throne 

All the adventure of the night made 
known ; 

Then asked for sentence; and with eager 
breath 

Some answered banishment, and others 
death. 

Then spake the king : " Your sentence is 
not mine ; 

Life is the gift of God, and is divine ; 

Nor from these palace walls shall one de- 
part 

Who carries such a secret in his heart ; 

My better judgment points another way. 

Good Alcuin, I remember how one day 

When my Pepino asked you, ' What are 
men ? ' 



You wrote upon his tablets with your 

pen, 
' Guests of the grave and travellers that 

pass ! ' 
This being true of all men, we, alas ! 
Being all fashioned of the selfsame dust,. 
Let us be merciful as well as just ; 
This passing traveller, who hath stolen' 

away 
The brightest jewel of my crown to-day, 
Shall of himself the precious gem restore ; 
By giving it, I make it mine once more. 
Over those fatal footprints I will throw 
My ermine mantle like another snow." 

Then Eginhard was summoned to the- 

hall, 
And entered, and in presence of theni 

all, 
The Emperor said : " My son, for thou 

to me 
Hast been a son, and evermore shalt 

be. 
Long hast tliou served thy sovereign, and 

thy zeal 
Pleads to me with importunate appeal. 
While I have been forgetful to requite 
Thy service and affection as was right. 
But now the hour is come, when I, thy 

Lord, 
Will crown thy love with such supreme 

reward, 
A gift so precious kings have striven in 

vain 
To win it from the hands of Charle- 
magne." 

Then sprang the portals of the chamber 

wide. 
And Princess Emma entered, in the pride 
Of birth and beauty, that in part o'er- 

came 
The conscious terror and the blush of 

shame. 
And the good Emperor rose up from his 

throne, 
And taking her white hand within his own 
Placed it in Eginhard's, and said : " My 

son. 
This is the gift thy constant zeal hath 

won ; 
Thus I repay the royal debt I owe. 
And cover up the footprints in the snowJ' 



THt: THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 509 


INTERLUDE. 


By the first Howe of Sudbury. 




Nor oak nor maple has so clear 


Thus ran the Student's pleasant rhyme 


A flame, or burns so quietly, 


Of Eginhard and love and youth ; 


Or leaves an ash so clean and white ; '' 


Some doubted its historic truth, 


Thinking by this to put aside 


But while they doubted, ne'ertheless 


The impending tale that terrified ; 


Saw in it gleams of truthfulness. 


When suddenly, to his delight, 


And thanked the Monk of Lauresheim. 


The Theologian interposed. 




Saying that when the door was closed, 


This they discussed in various mood ; 


And they had stopped that draft of cold. 


Then in the silence that ensued 


Unpleasant night air, he proposed 


Was heard a sharp and sudden sound 


To tell a tale world-wide apart 


As of a bowstring snapped in air ; 


From that the Student had just told ; 


And the Musician with a bound 


World-wide apart, and yet akin. 


Sprang up in terror from his chair. 


As showing that the human heart 


And for a moment listening stood, 


Beats on forever as of old. 


Then strode across the room, and found 


As well beneath the snow-white fold 


His dear, his darling violin 


Of Quaker kerchief, as within 


Still lying safe asleep within 


Sendal or silk or cloth of gold, 


Its little cradle, like a child 


And without preface would begin. 


That gives a sudden cry of pain. 




And wakes to fall asleep again ; 


And then the clamorous clock struck 


And as he looked at it and smiled. 


eight. 


By the uncertain light beguiled. 


Deliberate, with sonorous chime 


Despair! two strings were broken in twain. 


Slow measuring out the march of time. 




Like some grave Consul of old Rome 


While all lamented and made moan. 


In Jupiter's temple driving home 


With many a sympathetic word 


The nails that marked the year and date. 


As if the loss had been their own, 


Thus interrupted in his rhyme. 


Deeming the tones they might have heard 


The Theologian needs must wait ; 


Sweeter than they had heard before, 


But quoted Horace, where he sings 


They saw the Landlord at the door. 


The dire Necessity of things, 


The missing man, the portly Squire ! 


That drives into the roofs sublime 


He had not entered, but he stood 


Of new-built houses of the great 


W' ith both arms full of seasoned wood, 


The adamantine nails of Fate. 


To feed the much-devouring fire. 




That like a lion in a cage 


When ceased the little carillon 


Lashed its long lail and roared with rage. 


To herald from its wooden tower 




The important transit of the hour, 


The missing man ! Ah, yes, they said, 


The Theologian hastened on. 


Missing, but whither had he fled t 


Content to be allowed at last 


Where had he hidden himself away ? 


To sing his Idyl of the Past. 


No farther than the barn or shed ; 




He had not hidden himself, nor fled ; 




How should he pass the rainy day 


THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 


But in his barn with hens and hay. 




Or mending harness, cart, or sled .' 


ELIZAKETH. 


Now, having come, he needs must stay 


T 


And tell his tale as well as they. 


1 ■ 




" Ah, how short are the days ! How 


The Landlord answered only : " These 


soon the night overtakes us I 


Are logs from the dead apple-trees 


In the old country the twilight is longer ; 


Of the old orchard planted here 


but here in the forest 



5IO 



TALES OF A WA YSIDE INN. 



Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a 
pause in its coming, 

Hardly a moment between the two lights, 
the day and the lamplight ; 

Yet how grand is the winter ! How spot- 
less the snow is, and perfect ! " 

Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at night- 
fall to Hannah the housemaid, 

As in the farm-house kitchen, that served 
for kitchen and parlor, 

By the window she sat with her work, 
and looked on a landscape 

White as the great white sheet that Peter 
saw in his vision, 

By the four corners let down and descend- 
ing out of the heavens. 

Covered with snowwere the forests of pine, 
and the fields and the meadows. 

Nothing was dark but the sky, and the 
distant Delaware flowing 

Down from its native hills, a peaceful 
and bountiful river. 

Then with a smile on her lips made 

answer Hannah the housemaid : 
" Beautiful winter ! yea, the winter is 

beautiful, surely. 
If one could only walk like a fly with 

one's feet on the ceiling. 
But the great Delaware River is not like 

the Thames, as we saw it 
Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe 

Street in the Borough, 
Crowded with masts and sails of vessels 

coming and going ; 
Here there is nothing but pines, with 

patches of snow on their branches. 
There is snow in the air, and see ! it is 

falling already ; 
All the roads will be blocked, and I pity 

Joseph to-morrow, 
Breaking his way through the drifts, with 

his sled and oxen ; and then, too, 
How in all the world shall we get to 

Meeting on First-Day ? " 

But Elizabeth checked her, and an- 
swered, mildly reproving : 

" Surely the Lord will provide ; for unto 
the snow he sayeth. 

Be thou on the earth, the good Lord say- 
eth ; he it is 



Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters 

the hoar-frost." 
So she folded her work and laid it away 

in her basket. 

Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid 
had closed and fastened the shut- 
ters. 

Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp 
on the table, and placed there 

Plates and cups from the dresser, the 
brown rye loaf, and the butter 

Fresh from the dairy, and then, protect- 
ing her hand with a holder. 

Took from the crane in the chimney the 
steaming and simmering kettle, 

Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up 
the earthen teapot, ' 

Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint 
and wonderful figures. 

Then Elizabeth said, " Lo ! Joseph is 

long on his errand. 
I have sent him away with a hamper of 

food and of clothing 
For the poor in the village. A good lad 

and cheerful is Joseph ; 
\\\ the right place is his heart, and his- 

hand is ready and willing." 

Thus in praise of her servant she spake, 

and Hannah the housemaid 
Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, 

but governed her tongue, and was 

silent, 
While her mistress went on : " The 

house is far from the village ; 
We should be lonely here, were it not for 

Friends that in passing 
Sometimes tarry o'ernight, and make us 

glad by their coming." 

Thereupon answered Hannah the 
housemaid, the thrifty, the frugal : 

" Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy 
house were a tavern ; 

Open to all are its doors, and they come 
and go like the pigeons 

In and out of the holes of the pigeon- 
house over the hayloft. 

Cooing and smoothing their feathers and 
basking themselves in the sun- 
shine." 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 



Sir 



But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, 

Elizabeth answered : 
" All I have is the Lord's, not mine to 

give or withhold it ; 
I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and 

to those of his people 
Who in journeyings often surrender their 

lives to his service. 
His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so 

far can I make them 
Mine, as in giving I add my heart to 

whatever is given. 
Therefore my excellent father first built 

this house in the clearing ; 
Though he came not himself, I came ; for 

the Lord was my guidance. 
Leading me here for this service. We 

must not grudge, then, to others 
Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs 

that fall from our table." 

Thus rebuked, for a season was silent 

the penitent housemaid ; 
And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter 

and softer : 
" Dost thou remember, Hanftah, the 

great May-Meeting in London, 
When I was still a child, how we sat in 

the silent assembly, 
Waiting upon the Lord in patient and 

passive submission .'' 
No one spake, till at length a young man, 

a stranger, John Estaugh, 
Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were 

John the Apostle, 
Speaking such words of power that they 

bowed our hearts, as a strong wind 
Bends the grass of the fields, or grain 

that is ripe for the sickle. 
Thoughts of him to-day have been oft 

borne inward upon me, 
Wherefore I do not know ; but strong is 

the feeling within me 
That once more I shall sec a face I have 

never forgotten." 



E'en as she spake they heard the musi- 
cal jangle of sleigh-bells. 

First far off, with a dreamy sound and 
faint in the distance, 



Then growing nearer and louder, and 
turning into the farmyard. 

Till it stopped at the door, with sudden 
creaking of runners. 

Then there were voices heard as of two 
men talking together, 

And to herself, as she listened, upbraid- 
ing said Hannah the housemaid, 

"It is Joseph come back, and I wonder 
what stranger is with him." 

Down from its nail she took and lighted 
the great tin lantern. 

Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed 
like the top of a lighthouse, 

And went forth to receive the coming 
guest at the doorway. 

Casting into the dark a network of glim- 
mer and shadow 

Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, 
and the horses. 

And the forms of men, snow-covered, 
looming gigantic. 

Then giving Joseph the lantern, she en- 
tered the house with the stranger. 

Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks 
aglow with the night air ; 

And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, 
going to meet him, 

As if an unseen power had announced 
and preceded his presence. 

And he had come as one whose coming 
had long been expected, ^ 

Quietly gave her hand, and said, " Thou 
art welcome, John Estaugh." 

And the stranger replied, with staid and 
quiet behavior, 

" Dost thou remember me still, Eliza- 
beth ? After so many 

Years have passed, it seemeth a wonder- 
ful thing that I find thee. 

Surely the hand of the Lord conducted 
me here to thy threshold. 

For as I journeyed along, and pondered 
alone and in silence 

On his ways, that are past finding out, I 
saw in the snow-mist. 

Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, 
who by the wayside 

Paused and waited. Forthwith I remem- 
bered Queen Candace's eunuch, 

How on the way that goes down from 
Jerusalem unto Gaza, 



5^2 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE IN A'. 



Reading Esaias the Prophet, he jour- 
neyed, and spake unto Philip, 

Praying him to come up and sit in his 
chariot with him. 

So I greeted the man, and he mounted 
the sledge beside me, 

And as we talked on the way he told me 
of thee and thy homestead, 

How, being led by the light of the Spirit, 
that never deceiveth. 

Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, 
thou hadst come to this country. 

And I remembered thy name, and thy 
father and mother in England, 

And on my journey have stopped to see 
thee, Elizabeth Haddon, 

Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the 
labors of love thou art doing." 

And Elizabeth answered with confident 

voice, and serenely 
Looking into his face with her innocent 

eyes as she answered, 
" Surely the hand of the Lord is in it ; 

his Spirit hath led thee 
Out of the darkness and storm to the 

light and peace of my fireside." 

Then, with stamping of feet, the door 
was opened, and Joseph 

Entered, bearing the lantern, and, care- 
fully blowing the light out. 

Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down 
to their supper ; 

For underneath that roof was no distinc- 
tion of persons, 

But one family only, one heart, one 
hearth, and one household. 

When the supper was ended they drew 
their chairs to the fireplace. 

Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame 
and of firewood. 

Lord of forests unfelled, and not a 
gleaner of fagots, 

Spreading its arms to embrace with inex- 
haustible bounty 

All who fled from the cold, e.xultant, 
laughing at winter ! 

Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in 
clearing the table, 

Coming and going, and bustling about in 
closet and chamber. 



Then Elizabeth told her story again to 

John Estaugh, 
Going far back to the past, to the early 

days of her childhood ; 
How she had waited and watched, in all 

her doubts and besetments 
Comforted with the extendings and holy, 

sweet inflowings 
Of the spirit of love, till the voice imper- 
ative sounded. 
And she obeyed the voice, and cast in 

her lot with her people 
Here in the desert land, and God would 

provide for the issue. 

Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded 

hands, and demurely 
Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the 

silence that followed 
Nothing was heard for a while but the 

step of Hannah the housemaid 
Walking the floor overhead, and setting 

the chambers in order. 
And Elizabeth said, with a smile of com- 
passion, " The maiden 
Hath a light heart in her breast, but her 

feet are heavy and awkward." 
Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed 

his tongue, and was silent. 

Then came the hour of sleep, death's 
counterfeit, nightly rehearsal 

Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meet- 
ing of shadows, where no man 

Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace 
and rest are unbroken ! 

Silently over that house the blessing of 
slumber descended. 

But when the morning dawned, and the 
sun uprose in his splendor, 

Breaking his way through clouds that en- 
cumbered his path in the heavens, 

Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen 
breaking a pathway 

Through the drifts of snow ; the horses 
already were harnessed. 

And John Estaugh was standing and 
taking leave at the threshold, 

Saying that he should return at the 
Meeting in May ; while above 
them 

Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was 
looking out of the attic. 



THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE. 513 


Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly 


Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said 


closing the casement, 


to John Estaugh : 


As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out 


" Tarry awhile behind, for I have some- 


of its window, 


thing to tell thee, 


Then disappears again, and closes the 


Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the pres- 


shutter behind it. 


ence of others ; 




Them it concerneth not, only thee and me 




it concerneth." 


III. 


And they rode slosvly along through the 




woods, conversing together. 


Now was the winter gone, and the snow ; 


It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant 


and Robin the Redbreast, 


air of the forest ; 


Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it 


It was a pleasure to live on that bright 


was he and no other 


and happy May morning ! 


That had covered with leaves the Babes 




in the Wood, and blithely 


Then Elizabeth said, though still with a 


All the birds sang with him, and little 


certain reluctance, 


cared for his boasting. 


As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain 


Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the 


would have guarded : 


Cruel Uncle, and only 


" I will no longer conceal what is laid 


Sang for the mates they had chosen, and 


upon me to tell thee ; 


cared for the nests they were build- 


I have received from the Lord a charge 


ing. 


to love thee, John Estaugh." 


With them, but more sedately and meekly. 




Elizabeth Haddon 


And John Estaugh made answer, sur- 


Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips 


prised by the words she had 


were silent and songless. 


spoken, 


Thus came the lovely spring with a rush 


" Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy 


of blossoms and music. 


ways, thy meekness of spirit ; 


Flooding the earth with flowers, and the 


Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and 


air with melodies vernal. 


thy soul's immaculate whiteness, 




Love without dissimulation, a holy and 


Then it came to pass, one pleasant 


inward adorning. 


morning, that slowly 


But I have yet no light to lead me, no 


U]) the road there came a cavalcade, as 


voice to direct me. 


of pilgrims, 


When the Lord's work is done, and the 


Men and women, wending their way to 


toil and the labor completed 


the Quarterly Meeting 


He hath appointed to me, I will gather 


In the neighboring town ; and with them 


into the stillness 


came riding John Estaugh. 


Of my own heart awhile, and listen and 


At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, 


wait for his guidance." 


and alighting 




Tasted the currant wine, and the bread 


Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor 


of rye, and the honey 


wounded in spirit. 


Brought from the hives, that stood by the 


" So is it best, John Estaugh. ^^'e will 


sunny wall of the garden ; 


not speak of it furtlier. 


Tlien remounted their horses, refreshed, 


It hath been laid upon me to tell thee 


and continued their journey, 


this, for to-morrow 


And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, 


Thou art going away, across the sea, and 


and Hannah the housemaid. 


I know not 


But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a 


When I shall see thee more ; but if the 


little, and leaning 


Lord hath decreed it, 


ZZ 





514 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Thou wilt return again to seek me here 


Then John Estaugh came back o'er the 


and to find me." 


sea for the gift that was offered, 


And they rode onward in silence, and en- 


Better than houses and lands, the gift of 


tered the town with the others. 


a woman's affection. 




And on the First-Uay that followed, he 




rose in the Silent Assembly, 


IV. 


Holding in his strong hand a hand that 


Ships that pass in the night, and speaic 


trembled a little, 


each other in passing, 


Promising to be kind and true and faith- 


Only a signal shown and a distant voice 


ful in all things. 


in the darkness ; 


Such were the marriage-rites of John and 


So on the ocean of life we pass and speak 


Elizabeth Estaugh. 


one another. 




Only a look and a voice, then darkness 


And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, 


again and a silence. 


the diligent servant, 




Sped in his bashful wooing with homely 


Now went on as of old the quiet life of 


Hannah the housemaid ; 


the homestead. 


For when he asked her the question, 


Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, 


she answered, " Nay ; " and then 


in all things 


added : 


Mindful not of herself, but bearing the 


" But thee may make believe, and see 


burdens of others, 


what will come of it, Joseph." 


Always thoughtful and kind and untroub- 




led ; and Hannah the housemaid 




Diligent early and late, and rosy with 


INTERLUDE. 


washing and scouring. 




Still as of old disparaged the eminent 


" A PLEASANT and a winsome tale," 


merits of Joseph, 


The Student said, " though somewhat 


And was at times reproved for her light 


pale 


and frothy behavior. 


And quiet in its coloring, 


For her shy looks, and her careless 


As if caught its tone and air 


words, and her evil surmisings. 


From the gray suits that Quakers wear ; 


Being pressed down somewhat, like a 


Yet worthy of some German bard, 


cart with sheaves overladen. 


Hebel, or Voss, or Eberhard, 


As she would sometimes say to Joseph, 


Who love of humble themes to sing, 


quoting the Scriptures. 


In humble verse ; but no more true 




Than was the tale I told to you." 


Meanwhile John Estaugh departed 




across the sea, and departing 


The Theologian made reply, 


Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred 


And with some warmth, " That I deny ; 


and precious, 


'T is no invention of my own. 


Filling its chambers with fragrance, and 


But something well and widely known 


seeming to him in its sweetness 


To readers of a riper age, 


Mary's ointment of spikenard, that filled 


Writ by the skilful hand that wrote 


all the house with its odor. 


The Indian tale of Hobomok, 


lost days of delight, that are wasted in 


And Philothea's classic page. 


doubting and waiting ! 


I found it like a waif afloat. 


lost hours and days in which we might 


Or dulse uprooted from its rock, 


have been happy ! 


On the swift tides that ebb and flow 


But the light shone at last, and guided his 


In daily papers, and at flood 


wavering footsteps. 


Bear freighted vessels to and fro, 


And at last came the voice, imperative, 


But later, when the el)b is low. 


questionless, certain. 


Leave a long waste of sand and mud " 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 515 


" It matters little," quoth the Jew ; 


A simple monk, like many of his day. 


" The cloak of truth is lined with lies, 


Whose instinct was to listen and obey. 


Sayeth some proverb old and wise ; 




And Love is master of all arts, 


A different man was Brother Timothy, 


And puts it into human hearts 


Of larger mould and of a coarser paste ; 


The strangest things to say and do." 


A rubicund and stalwart monk was he. 




Broad in the shoulders, broader in the 


And here the controversy closed 


waist, 


Abruptly, ere 't was well begun ; 


Who often filled the dull refectory 


For the Sicilian interposed 


With noise by which the convent was 


With, " Lordlings, listen, every one 


disgraced, 


That listen may, unto a tale 


But to the mass-book gave but little 


That 's merrier than the nightingale ; 


heed. 


A tale that cannot boast, forsooth. 


By reason he had never learned to read. 


A single rag or shred of truth ; 




That does not leave the mind in doubt 


Now, as they passed the outskirts of a 


As to the with it or without ; 


wood. 


A naked falsehood and absurd 


They saw, with mingled pleasure and 


As mortal ever told or heard. 


surprise, 


Therefore I tell it ; or, maybe, 


Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that stood 


Simply because it pleases me." 


Lazily winking his large, limpid eyes. 




The farmer Gilbert of that neighbor- 




hood 


THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 


His owner was, who, looking for sup- 




plies 


THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE. 


Of fagots, deeper in the wood had 




strayed. 


Once one a time, some centuries ago. 


Leaving his beast to ponder in the shade. 


In the hot sunshine two Franciscan 




friars 


As soon as Brother Timothy espied 


Wended their weary way with footsteps 


The patient animal, he said : " Good- 


slow 


lack ! 


Back to their convent, whose white 


Thus for our needs doth Providence pro- 


walls and spires 


vide ; 


Gleamed on the hillside like a patch of 


We'll lay our wallets on the creature's 


snow ; 


back." 


Covered with dust they were, and torn 


This being done, he leisurely untied 


by briers. 


From head and neck the halter of the 


And bore like sumpter-mules upon their 


jack, 


backs 


And ]Hit it round his own, and to the tree 


The badge of poverty, their beggar's 


Stood tethered fast as if the ass were he. 


sacks. 






And, bursting forth into a merry laugh. 


The first was Brother Anthony, a spare 


He cried to Brother Anthony : " Away ! 


And silent man, with pallid cheeks and 


And drive the ass before you with your 


thin, 


staff; 


Much given to vigils, penance, fasting. 


And when you reach the convent you 


prayer. 


may say 


Solemn and gray, and worn with dis- 


Von left mc at a farm, half tired and half 


cijjlinc. 


111 with a fever, for a night and day, 


As if his body but white ashes were. 


And that the farmer lent this ass to hear 


Heaped on the living coals that glowed 


Our wallets, that are heavy with good 


within ; 


fare." 



5i6 TALES OF A 


WAYSIDE INN. 


Now Brother Anthony, who knew the 


Than by this penance, dieting on grass, 


pranks 


And being worked and beaten as an ass. 


Of Brother Timothy, would not per- 




suade 


" Think of the ignominy I endured ; 


Or reason with him on his quirks and 


Think of the miserable life I led. 


■ cranks, 


The toil and blows to which I was inured, 


But, being obedient, silently obeyed ; 


My wretched lodging in a windy shed. 


And, smiting with his staff the ass's 


My scanty fare so grudgingly procured, 


flanks, 


The damp and musty straw that formed 


Drove him before him over hill and 


my bed ! 


glade, 


But, having done this penance for my 


Safe with his provend to the convent gate. 


sins. 


Leaving poor Brother Timothy to his fate. 


My life as man and monk again begins." 


Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for his 


The simple Gilbert, hearing words like 


fire, 


these. 


Forth issued from the wood, and stood 


Was conscience-stricken, and fell down 


aghast 


apace 


To see the ponderous body of the friar 


Before the friar upon his bended knees. 


Standing where he had left his donkey 


And with a suppliant voice implored 


last. 


his grace ; 


Trembling he stood, and dared not ven- 


And the good monk, now very much at 


ture nigher, 


ease, 


But stared, and gaped, and crossed 


Granted him pardon with a smiling 


himself full fast ; 


face. 


For, being credulous and of little wit. 


Nor could refuse to be that night his 


He thought it was some demon from the 


guest. 


pit. 


It being late, and he in need of rest. 


While speechless and bewildered thus he 


Upon a hillside, where the olive thrives, 


gazed, 


With figures painted on its white- 


And dropped his load of fagots on the 


washed walls, 


ground. 


The cottage stood ; and near the hum- 


Quoth Brother Timothy : " Be not amazed 


ming hives 


That where you left a donkey should 


Made murmurs as of far-off water-falls ; 


be found 


A place where those who love secluded 


A poor Franciscan friar, half-starved and 


lives 


crazed. 


Might live content, and, free from noise 


Standing demure and with a halter 


and brawls, 


bound ; 


Like Claudian's Old Man of Verona here 


But set me free, and hear the piteous 


Measure by fruits the slow-revolving 


story 


year. 


Of Brother Timothy of Casal-Maggiore. 






And, coming to this cottage of content, 


" I am a sinful man, although you see 


They found his children, and the 


I wear the consecrated cowl and cape ; 


buxom wench 


You never owned an ass, but you owned 


His wife, Dame Cicely, and his father. 


me. 


bent 


Changed and transformed from my own 


With years and labor, seated on a 


natural shape 


bench. 


All for the deadly sin of gluttony. 


Repeating over some obscure event 


From which I could not otherwise es- 


\\\ the old wars of Milanese and 


cape. 


French ; 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 517 


All welcomed the Franciscan, with a 


And wagged his red beard, matted like a 


sense 


fleece. 


Of sacred awe and humble reverence. 


And cast such glances at Dame Cicely 




That Gilbert now grew angry with his 


When Gilbert told them what had come 


guest. 


to pass, 


And thus in words his rising wrath ex- 


How beyond question, cavil, or surmise, 


pressed. 


Good Brother Timothy had been their 




ass, 


" Good father," said he, " easily we see 


You should have seen the wonder in 


How needful in some persons, and 


their eyes ; 


how right. 


You should have heard them cry, " Alas ! 


Mortification of the flesh may be. 


alas ! " 


The indulgence you have given it to- 


Have heard their lamentations and 


night. 


their sighs ! 


After long penance, clearly proves to 


For all believed the story, and began 


me 


To see a saint in this afflicted man. 


Your strength against temptation is 




but slight. 


Forthwith there was prepared a grand 


And shows the dreadful peril you are in 


repast. 


Of a relapse into your deadly sin. 


To satisfy the craving of the friar 




After so rigid and prolonged a fast ; 


" To-morrow morning, with the rising 


The bustling housewife stirred the 


sun, 


kitchen fire ; 


Go back unto your convent, nor refrain 


Then her two favorite pullets and her last 


From fasting and from scourging, for you 


Were put to death, at her express de- 


run 


sire. 


Great danger to become an ass again, 


And served up with a salad in a bowl. 


Since monkish flesh and asinine are one ; 


And flasks of country wine to crown the 


Therefore be wise, nor longer here re- 


whole. 


main, 




Unless you wish the scourge should be 


It would not be believed should I repeat 


ajjplied 


How hungry Brother Timothy ap- 


By other hands, that will not spare your 


peared ; 


hide." 


It was a pleasure but to see him eat, 




His white teeth flashing through his 


When this the monk had heard, his 


russet beard. 


color fled 


His face aglow and flushed with wine and 


And then returned, like lightning in 


meat, ^ 


the air. 


His roguish eyes that rolled and 


Till he was all one blush from foot to 


laughed and leered ! 


head. 


Lord 1 how he drank the blood-red coun- 


And even the bald spot in his rus.set 


try wine 


hair 


As if the village vintage were divine ! 


Turned from its usual pallor to bright 


And all the while he talked without sur- 


red I 
The old man was asleep upon his chair. 


cease, 


Then all retired, and sank into the deep 


And told his merry talcs with jovial 


And helpless imbecility of sleep. 


glee 
That never flagged, but rather did in- 


They slept until the dawn of day drew 


crease. 


near. 


And laughed aloud as if insane were 


Till the cock should have crowed, but 


he, 


did not crow. 



5i8 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


For they had slain the shining chanti- 


And turned it over many different 


cleer 


ways. 


And eaten him for supper, as you know. 


Hoping that some safe issue he might 


The monk was up betimes and of good 


find; 


cheer, 


But stood in fear of what the world 


And, having breakfasted, made haste 


would say. 


to go. 


If he accepted presents of this kind, 


As if he heard the distant matin bell, 


Employing beasts of burden for the 


And had but little time to say farewell. 


packs 




That lazy monks should carry on their 


Fresh was the morning ^s the breath of 


backs. 


kine ; 




Odors of herbs commingled with the 


Then, to avoid all scandal of the sort. 


sweet 


And stop the mouth of cavil, he 


Balsamic exhalations of the pine ; 


decreed 


A haze was in the air presaging heat ; 


That he would cut the tedious matter 


Uprose the sun above the Apennine, 


short. 


And all the misty valleys at its feet 


And sell the ass with all convenient 


Were full of the delirious song of birds, 


speed. 


Voices of men, and bells, and low of 


Thus saving the expense of his sup- 


herds. 


port. 




And hoarding something for a time of 


All this to Brother Timothy was naught ; 


need. 


He did not care for scenery, nor here 


So he despatched him to the neighbor- 


His busy fancy found the thing it sought ; 


ing Fair, 


But when he saw the convent walls ap- 


And freed himself from cumber and from 


pear. 


care. 


And smoke from kitchen chimneys up- 




ward caught 


It happened now by chance, as some 


And whirled aloft into the atmos- 


might say. 


phere. 


Others perhaps would call it destiny, 


He quickened his slow footsteps, like a 


Gilbert was at the Fair ; and heard a 


beast 


bray. 


That scents the stable a league off at 


And nearer came, and saw that it was 


least. 


he, 




And whispered in his ear, " Ah, lacka- 


And as he entered through the convent 


day ! 


gate 


Good father, the rebellious flesh, I 


He saw there in the court the ass. 


see, V 


who stood 


Has changed you back into an ass 


Twirling his ears about, and seemed to 


again. 


wait. 


And all my admonitions were in vain." 


Just as he found him waiting in the 




wood ; 


The ass, who felt this breathing in his 


And told the Prior that, to alleviate 


ear. 


The daily labors of the brotherhood. 


Did not turn round to look, but shook 


The owner, being a man of means and 


his head, 


thrift. 


As if he were not pleased these words to 


Bestowed him on the convent as a gift. 


hear. 




And contradicted all that had been 


And thereupon the Prior for many days 


said. 


Revolved this serious matter in his 


And this made Gilbert cry in voice more 


mind, 


clear, 



THE SICILIAN'S TALE. 



519 



" I know you well ; your hair is russet- 
red ; 
Do not deny it ; for you are the same 
Franciscan friar, and Timothy by name." 

The ass, though now the secret had 
come out, 
Was obstinate, and shook his head 
again ; 
Until a crowd was gathered round about 
To hear this dialogue between the 
twain ; 
And raised their voices in a noisv shout 
When Gilbert tried to make the mat- 
ter plain, 
And flouted him and mocked him all 

day long 
With laughter and with jibes and scraps 
of song. 

" If this be Brother Timothy," they 
cried, 
" Buy him, and feed him on the tender- 
est grass ; 
Thou canst not do too much for one so 
tried 
As to be twice transformed into an 
ass." 
So simple Gilbert bought him, and untied 
His halter, and o'er mountain and 
morass 
He led him homeward, talking as he 

went 
Of good behavior and a mind content. 

The children saw them coming, and ad- 
vanced. 
Shouting with joy, and hung about his 
neck, — 
Not Gilbert's but the ass's, — round him 
danced. 
And wove green garlands wherewithal 
to deck 
His sacred person ; for again it chanced 
Their childish feelings, without rein or 
check, 
Could not discriminate in any way 
A donkey from a friar of Orders Gray. 

" O Brother Timothy," the children 
said, 
" You have come back to us just as 
before ; 



We were afraid, and thought that you 

were dead, 
And we should never see you any 

more." 
And then they kissed the white star on 

his head. 
That like a birth-mark or a badge he 

wore, 
And patted him upon the neck and face. 
And said a thousand things with childish 

grace. 

Thenceforward and forever he was known 

As Brother Timothy, and led alway 
A life of luxury, till he had grown 

Ungrateful, being stuffed with corn 
and hay. 
And very vicious. Then in angry tone. 
Rousing himself, poor Gilbert said one 
day, 
" When simple kindness is misunder- 
stood 
A little flagellation may do good." 

His many vices need not here be told ; 
Among them was a habit that he had 
Of flinging up his heels at young and old, 
Breaking his halter, running off like 
mad 
O'er pasture-lands and meadow, wood 
and wold. 
And other misdemeanors quite as bad ; 
But worst of all was breaking from his 

shed 
At night, and ravaging the cabbage-bed. 

So Brether Timothy went back once 
more 
To his old life of labor and distress ; 
Was beaten worse than he had been be- 
fore. 
And now, instead of comfort and caress, 
Came labors manifold and trials sore ; 
And as his toils increased his food 
grew less. 
Until at last the great consoler. Death, 
Ended his many sufferings with his 
breath. 

Great was the lamentation when he died ; 

And mainly that he died impenitent ; 
Dame Cicely bewailed, the children cried. 

The old man still remembered the event 



520 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


In the French war, and Gilbert magnified 


Flee all that are not dead 


His many virtues, as he came and 


Of the army of Amurath. 


went. 




And said : " Heaven pardon Brother 


In the. darkness of the night 


Timothy, 


Iskander, the pride and boast 


And keep us from the sin of gluttony." 


Of that mighty Othman host, 




With his routed Turks, takes flight 




From the battle fought and lost 


INTERLUDE. 


On the day of Pentecost ; 




Leaving behind him dead 


" SiGNOR LuiGi," said the Jew, 


The army of Amurath, 


When the Sicilian's tale was told, 


The vanguard as it led, 


" The were-wolf is a legend old. 


The rearguard as it fled. 


But the were-ass is something new, 


Mown down in the bloody swath 


And yet for one I think it true. 


Of the battle's aftermath. 


The days of wonder have not ceased ; 




If there are beasts in forms of men. 


But he cared not for Hospodars, 


As sure it happens now and then, 


Nor for Baron or Voivode, 


Why may not man become a beast. 


As on through the night he rode 


In way of punishment at least ? 


And gazed at the fateful stars. 




That were shining overhead ; 


" But this I will not now discuss ; 


But smote his steed with his staff, 


I leave the theme, that we may thus 


And smiled to himself, and said : 


Remain within the realm of song. 


" This is the time to laugh." 


The story that I told before, 




Though not acceptable to all. 


In the middle of the night. 


At least you did not find too long. 


In a halt of the hurrying flight. 


I beg you, let me try again. 


There came a Scribe of the King 


With something in a different vein, 


Wearing his signet ring. 


Before you bid the curtain fall. 


And said in a voice severe : 


Meanwhile keep watch upon the door. 


" This is the first dark blot 


Nor let the Landlord leave his chair. 


On thy name, George Castriot ! 


Lest he should vanish into air, 


Alas ! why art thou here. 


And thus elude our search once more." 


And the army of Amurath slain, 




And left on the battle plain ? " 


Thus saying, from his lips he blew 




A little cloud of perfumed breath. 


And Iskander answered and said : 


And then, as if it were a clew 


" They lie on the bloody sod 


To lead his footsteps safely through. 


By the hoofs of 'norses trod ; 


Began his tale as followeth. 


But this was the decree 




Of the watchers overhead ; 




For the war belongeth to God, 


THE SPANISH JEW'S SECOND 


And in battle who are we, 


TALE. 


Who are we, that shall withstand 




The wind of his lifted hand ? " 


SCANDERBEG. 






Then he bade them bind with chains 


The battle is fought and won 


This man of books and brains ; 


By King Ladislaus the Hun, 


And the Scribe said : " What misdeed 


In fire of hell and death's frost, 


Have I done, that, without need, 


On the day of Pentecost. 


Thou doest to me this thing ? " 


And in rout before his path 


And Iskander answering 


From the field of battle red 


Said unto him " Not one 



THE SPANISH JEW'S SECOND TALE. 



521 



Misdeed to me hast thou done ; 
But for fear that thou shoulilst run 
And hide thyself from me, 
Have I done this unto thee. 

" Now write me a writing, O Scribe, 

And a blessing l)e on thy tribe ! 

A writing sealed with thy ring, 

To King Amurath's Pasha 

In the city of Croia, 

The city moated and walled, 

That he surrender the same 

In the name of my master, the King 

For what is writ in his name 

Can never be recalled." 

And the Scribe bowed low in dread. 

And unto Iskander said : 

" Allah is great and just, 

But we are as ashes and dust ; 

How shall I do this thing. 

When I know that my guilty head 

Will be forfeit to the King .? " 

Then swift as a shooting star 

The curved and shining blade 

Of Iskander's scimetar 

From its sheath, with jewels bright, 

Shot, as he thundered : " Write ! " 

And the trembling Scribe obeyed, 

And wrote in the fitful glare 

Of the bivouac fire apart, 

With the chill of the midnight air 

On his forehead white and bare, 

And the chill of death in his heart. 

Then again Iskander cried : 
" Now follow whither I ride, 
For here thou must not stay. 
Thou shalt be as my dearest friend, 
And honors without end 
Shall surround thee on every side, 
And attend thee night and day." 
But the sullen Scribe replied : 
" Our pathways here divide ; 
Mine leadeth not thy way." 

And even as he spoke 

Fell a sudden scimetar-strokc. 

When no one else was near ; 

And the .Scribe sank to the ground, 

As a stone, pushed from the brink 

Of a black pool, might sink 



With a sob and disappear ; 

And no one saw the deed ; 

And in the stillness around 

No sound was heard but the sound 

Of the hoofs of Iskander's steed. 

As forward he sjjrang with a bound. 

Then onward he rode and afar, 
With scarce three hundred men, 
Through river and forest and fen, 
O'er the nKJuntains of Argentar ; 
And his heart was merry within. 
When he crossed the river Drin, 
And saw in the gleam of the morn 
The White Castle Ak-Hissar, 
The city Croia called, 
The city moated and walled. 
The city where he was born, — 
And above it the morning star. 

Then his trumpeters in the van 
On their silver bugles blew. 
And in crowds about him ran 
Albanian and Turcoman, 
That the sound togetlier drew. 
And he feasted with his friends, 
And when they were warm with wine, 
He said : " O friends of mine. 
Behold what fortune sends. 
And what the fates design ! 
King Amurath commands 
That my father's wide domain, 
This city and all its lands, 
Shall be given to me again." 

Then to the Castle White 
He rode in regal state. 
And entered in at the gate 
In all his arms bedight, 
And gave to the Pasha 
Who ruled in Croia 
The writing of the King, 
Sealed with his signet ring. 
And the Pasha bowed his head, 
And after a silence said : 
" Allah is just and great ! 
I yield to the will divine, 
The city and lands are thine ; 
Who shall contend with fate ? " 

Anon from the castle walls 
The crescent banner falls. 
And the crowd beholds instead, 



'522 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Like a portent in the sky, 

Iskander's banner fly, 

The Black Eagle with double head ; 

And a shout ascends on high, 

For men's souls are tired of the Turks, 


As if he saw the Vikings rise, 
Gigantic shadows in the gloom ; 
And much he talked of their emprise, 
And meteors seen in Northern skies, 
And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom. 


And their wicked ways and works. 

That have made of Ak-Hissar 

A city of the plague ; 

And the loud, exultant cry 

That echoes wide and far 

Is : " Long live Scanderbeg ! " 


But the .Sicilian laughed again ; 
" This is the time to laugh," he said. 
For the whole story he well knew 
Was an invention of the Jew, 
Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, 
And of the same bright scarlet thread 
As was the Tale of Kambalu. 


It was thus Iskander came 
Once more unto his own ; 
And the tidings, like the flame • 


Only the Landlord spake no word ; 
'T was doubtful whether he had heard 


Of a conflagration blown 


The tale at all, so full of care 


By the winds of summer, ran, 
Till the land was in a blaze, 


Was he of his impending fate, 
That, like the sword of Damocles, 


And the cities far and near. 


Above his head hung blank and bare. 


Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, 

In his Book of the Words of the Days, 

" Were taken as a man 


Suspended by a single hair, 
So that he could not sit at ease, 
But sighed and looked disconsolate, 


Would take the tip of his ear." 


And shifted restless in his chair, 




Revolving how he might evade 




The blow of the descending blade. 


INTERLUDE. 


The Student came to his relief 


" Now that is after my own heart," 
The Poet cried ; " one understands 


By saying in his easy way 

To the Musician : " Calm your grief, 


Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, 
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg. 


My fair Apollo of the North, 
Balder the Beautiful and so forth ; 


And skilled in every warlike art, 
Riding through his Albanian lands, ♦ 


Although your magic lyre or lute 
With broken strings is lying mute, 


And following the auspicious star 


Still you can tell some doleful tale 


That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar." 


Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, 




Or something of the kind to suit 


The Theologian added here 


The mood that we are in to-night 


His word of praise not less sincere. 
Although he ended with a jibe ; 


For what is marvellous and strange ; 
So give your nimble fancy range, 


" The hero of romance and song 


And we will follow in its fli.uht." 


Was born," he said, " to right the wrong ; 




And I approve ; but all the same 
That bit of treason with the Scribe 


But the Musician shook his head ; 
" No tale I tell to-night," he said. 


Adds nothing to your hero's fame." 


" While my poor instrument lies there, 




Even as a child with vacant stare 


The Student praised the good old times, 
And liked the canter of the rhymes, 


Lies in its little coffin dead." 


That had a hoof beat in their sound ; 


Yet, being urged, he said at last : 


But longed some further word to hear 


" There comes to me out of the Past 


Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, 


A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild, 


And where his volume might be found. 
The tall Musician walked the room 


Singing a song almost divine, 
And with a tear in every line ; 


With folded arms and gleaming eyes. 


An ancient ballad, that my nurse 



THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 523 


Sang to me when I was a child, 


She took from them their great waxlight ; 


In accents tender as the verse ; 


" Now ye shall lie in the dark at night." 


And sometimes wept, and sometimes 




smiled 


In the evening late they cried with cold ; 


While singing it, to see arise 


The mother heard it under the mould. 


The look of wonder in my eyes. 




And feel my heart with terror beat. 


The woman heard it the earth below : 


This simple ballad I retain 


" To my little children I must go." 


Clearly imprinted on my brain. 




And as a tale will now repeat." 


She standeth before the Lord of all : 




"And may I go to my children small .? " 


THE MUSICIAN'S TALE. 


She prayed him so long, and would not 


THE MOIHER'S CHOST. 


cease. 




Until he bade her depart in peace. 


SvEND Dyking he rideth adown the 




glade ; 


" At cock-crow thou shalt return again ; 


/ i7iy self was young ! 


Longer thou shalt not there remain ! " 


There he hath wooed him so winsome a 




maid ; 


She girded up her sorrowful bones. 


Fair 'words gladden so tnany a heart. 


And rifted the walls and the marble 




stones. 


Together were they for seven years. 




And together children six were theirs. 


As through the village she flitted by, 




The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky. 


Then came Death abroad through the 




land, 
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand. 


When she came to the castle gate. 


There stood her eldest daughter in wait. 


Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade, 


" Why standest thou here, dear daughter 


And again hath he wooed him another 


mine .'' 


maid. 


How fares it with brothers and sisters 




thine ?" 


He hath wooed him a maid and brought 




home a bride. 


" Never art thou mother of mine, 


But she was bitter and full of pride. 


For my mother was both fair and fine. 


When she came driving into the yard. 


" My mother was white, with checks of red, 


There stood the six children weeping so 


But thou art i)alc, and like to the dead." 


hard. 






" How should I be fair and fine ? 


There stood the small children with sor- 


I have been dead ; pale cheeks are mine. 


rowful heart ; 




From before her feet she thrust theni 


" How should I be white and red. 


apart. 


So long, so long have I been dead .'' " 


She gave to them neither ale nor bread ; 


When she came in at the chamber door. 


" Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she 


There stood the small children weeping 


said. 


sore. 


She took from them their quilts of blue. 


One she braided, another she brushed. 


And said : " Ye shall lie on the straw we 


The third she lifted, the fourth she 


strew." 


hushed. 



524 TALES OF A WAYSFDE INN. 


The fifth she took on her lap and pressed, 


Whose country was their Holy Land, 


As if she would suckle it at her breast. 


Whose singing robes were homespun 




brown 


Then to her eldest daughter said she, 


From looms of their own native town, 


" Do thou bid Svend Uyring come hither 


Which they were not ashamed to wear, 


to me." 


And not of silk or sendal gay, 




Nor decked with fanciful array 


Into the chamber when he came 


Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer." 


She spake to him in anger and shame. 






To whom the Student answered : " Yes ; 


" I left behind me both ale and bread ; 


All praise and honor ! I confess 


My children hunger and are not fed. 


That bread and ale, home-baked, home- 




brewed, 


" I left behind me quilts of blue ; 


Are wholesome and nutritious food. 


My children lie on the straw ye strew. 


But not enough for all our needs ; 




Poets — the best of them — are birds 


" I left behind me the great waxlight ; 


Of passage ; where their instinct leads 


My children lie in the dark at night. 


They range abroad for thoughts and 




words. 


" If I come again unto your hall, 


And from all climes bring home the seeds 


As cruel a fate shall you befall ! 


That germinate in flowers or weeds. 




They are not fowls in barnyards born 


" Now crows the cock with feathers red ; 


To cackle o'er a grain of corn ; 


Back to the earth must all the dead. 


And, if you shut the horizon down 




To the small limits of their town. 


" Now crows the cock with feathers 


What do you but degrade your bard 


swart ; 


Till he at last becomes as one 


The gates of heaven fly wide apart. 


Who thinks the all-encircling sun 




Rises and sets in his back yard .' " 


" Now crows the cock with feathers white ; 




I can abide no longer to-night." 


The Theologian said again : 




" It may be so ; yet I maintain 


Whenever they heard the watch-dogs wail. 


That what is native still is best, 


They gave the children bread and ale. 


And little care I for the rest. 




'T is a long story ; time would fail 


Whenever they heard the watch-dogs bay, 


To tell it, and the hour is late ; 


They feared lest the dead were on their 


We will not waste it in debate. 


way. 


But listen to our Landlord's tale." 


Whenever they heard the watch-dogs 


And thus the sword of Damocles 


bark ; 


Descending not by slow degrees. 


/ myself was young ! 


But suddenly, on the Landlord fell, 


They feared the dead out there in the dark. 


Who blushing, and with much demur 


Fair %vords gladden so many a heart. 


And many vain apologies, 




Plucking up heart, began to tell 




The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher. 


INTERLUDE 




Touched by the pathos of these rhymes, 


THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 


The Theologian said : " All praise 




Be to the ballads of old times 


THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTOPHER. 


And to the bards of simple ways. 


It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 


Who walked with Nature hand in hand. 


Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 



THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 525 


From Merry England over the sea, 


A little lady with golden hair. 


Who stepped upon this continent 


Whom he called his cousin, but whom 


As if his august presence lent 


he had wed 


A glory to the colony. 


In the Italian manner, as men said, 




And great was the scandal everywhere. 


You should have seen him in the street 




Of the little Boston of Winthrop's time, 


But worse than this was the vague sur- 


His rapier dangling at his feet, 


mise. 


Doublet and hose and boots complete, 


Though none could vouch for it or aver. 


Prince Rupert hat with ostrich plume, 


That the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre 


Gloves that exhaled a faint perfume. 


Was only a Papist in disguise ; 


Luxuriant curls and air sublime, 


And the more to imbitter their bitter 


And superior manners now obsolete ! 


lives. 




And the more to trouble the public mind. 


He had a way of saying things 


Came letters from England, from two 


That made one think of courts and kings. 


other wives, 


And lords and ladies of high degree ; 


Whom he had carelessly left behind ; 


So that not having been at court 


Both of them letters of such a kind 


Seemed something very little short 


As made the governor hold his breath ; 


Of treason or lese-majesty. 


The one imploring him straight to send 


Such an accomplished knight was he. 


The husband home, that he might 




amend ; 


His dwelling was just beyond the town. 


The other asking his instant death, 


At what he called his country-seat ; 


As the only way to make an end. 


For, careless of Fortune's smile or frown. 




And weary grown of the world and its 


The wary governor deemed it right. 


ways, 


When all this wickedness was revealed. 


He wished to pass the rest of his days 


To send his warrent signed and sealed, 


In a private life and a calm retreat. 


And take the body of the knight. 




Armed with this mighty instrument. 


But a double life was the life he led, 


The marshal, mounting his gallant steed, 


And, while professing to be in search 


Rode forth from town at the top of his 


Of a godly course, and willing, he said. 


speed. 


Nay, anxious to join the Puritan church, 


And followed by all his bailiffs bold. 


He made of all this but small account, 


As if on high achievement bent, 


And passed his idle hours instead 


To storm some castle or stronghold. 


With rovstering Morton of Merry Mount, 


Ciiallenge the warders on the wall. 


That pettifogger from Furnival's Inn, 


And seize in his ancestral hall 


Lord of misrule and riot and sin. 


A robber-baron grim and old. 


Who looked on the wine when it was 


But when through all the dust and heat 


red. 


He came to Sir Christopher's country- 




seat. 


This country-seat was little more 


No knight he found, nor warder there. 


Than a cabin of logs ; but in front of the 


But the little lady with golden hair. 


door 


Who was gathering in the bright sun- 


A modest flower-bed thickly sown 


shine 


With sweet alyssum and columbine 


The sweet alyssum and columbine ; 


Made those who saw it at once divine 


While gallant Sir Christopher, all so gay, 


The touch of some other hand than his 


Being forewarned, through the postern 


own. 


gate 


And first it was whispered, and then it 


Of his castle wall had tripped away, 


was known. 


And was keeping a little holiday 


That he in secret was harboring there 


In the forests, that bounded his estate. 



526 



TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 



Then as a trusty squire and true 
The marshal searched the castle through, 
Not crediting what the lady said ; 
Searched from cellar to garret in vain, 
And, finding no knight, came out again 
And arrested the golden damsel instead, 
And bore her in triumph into the town. 
While from her eyes the tears rolled down • 
On the sweet alyssum and columbine. 
That she held in her fingers white and fine. 

The governor's heart was moved to see 

So fair a creature caught within 

The snares of Satan and of sin. 

And read her a little homily 

On the folly and wickedness of the lives 

Of women, half cousins and half wives ; 

But, seeing that naught his words availed, 

He sent her away in a ship that sailed 

For Merry England over the sea, 

To the other two wives in the old countree, 

To search her further, since he had failed 

To come at the heart of the mystery. 

Meanwhile Sir Christopher wandered 

away 
Through pathless woods for a month and 

a day. 
Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at night 
With the noble savage, who took delight 
In his feathered hat and his velvet vest, 
His gun and his rapier and the rest. 
But as soon as the noble savage heard 
That a bounty was offered for this gay 

bird. 
He wanted to slay him out of hand. 
And bring in his beautiful scalp for a 

show, 
Like the glossy head of a kite or crow, 
Until he was made to understand 
They wanted the bird alive, not dead ; 
Then he followed him whithersoever he 

fled. 
Through forest and field, and hunted him 

down. 
And brought him prisoner into the town. 

Alas ! it was a rueful sight, 

To see this melancholy knight 

In such a dismal and hapless case ; 

His hat deformed by stain and dent, 

His plumage broken, his doublet rent. 

His beard and flowing locks forlorn, 



Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, 

His boots with dust and mire besprent ; 

But dignified in his disgrace. 

And wearing an unblushing face. 

And thus before the magistrate 

He stood to hear the doom of fate. 

In vain he strove with wonted ease 

To modify and extenuate 

His evil deeds in church and state. 

For gone was now his power to please ; 

And his pompous words had no more 

weight 
Than feathers flying in the breeze. 

With suavity equal to his own 
The governor lent a patient ear 
To the speech evasive and highflown. 
In which he endeavored to make clear 
That colonial laws were too severe 
When applied to a gallant cavalier, 
A gentleman born, and so well known. 
And accustomed to move in a higher 
sphere. 

All this the Puritan governor heard. 
And deigned in answer never a word ; 
But in summary manner shipped away, 
In a vessel that sailed from Salem bay, 
This splendid and famous cavalier, 
With his Rupert hat and his popery. 
To Merry England over the sea. 
As being unmeet to inhabit here. 

Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir Christo- 
pher, 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 
The first who furnished this barren land 
With apples of Sodom and ropes of sand. 



FINALE. 

These are the tales those merry guests 
Told to each other, well or ill ; 
Like summer birds that lift their crests 
Above the borders of their nests 
And twitter, and again are still. 

These are the tales, or new or old, 
In idle moments idly told ; 
Flowers of the field with petals thin, 
Lilies that neither toil nor spin, 
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse 



FINALE. 



527 



Hung in the parlor of the inn 
Beneath the sign of the Red Horse. 

And still, reluctant to retire, 

The friends sat talking by the fire 

And watched the smouldering embers 

burn 
To ashes, and flash up again 
Into a momentary glow, 
Lingering like them when forced to go, 
And going when they would remain ; 
For on the morrow they must turn 
Their faces homeward, and the pain 
Of parting touched with its unrest 
A tender nerve in every breast. 

But sleep at last the victory won ; 
They must be stirring with the sun. 
And drowsily good night they said. 
And went still gossiping to bed, 
And left the parlor wrajDped in gloom. 
The only live thing in the room 
Was the old clock, that in its pace 
Kept time with the revolving spheres 
And constellations in their flight, 
And struck with its uplifted mace 
The dark, unconscious hours of night. 
To senseless and unlistening ears. 

Uprose the sun ; and every guest, 
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed 



For journeying home and city-ward ; 
The old stage-coach was at the door. 
With horses harnessed, long before 
The sunshine reached the withered sward 
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar 
Murmured : " Farewell forevermore." 

"Farewell ! " the portly Landlord cried ; 
"Farewell ! " the ])arting guests replied, 
But little thought that nevermore 
Their feet would pass that threshold o'er ; 
That nevermore together there 
Would they assemble, free from care. 
To hear the oaks' mysterious roar. 
And breathe the wholesome country air. 

Where are they now ? What lands and 

skies 
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes .■' 
What hope deludes, what promise cheers, 
What ])leasant voices fill their ears "*. 
Two arc beyond the salt sea waves, 
And three already in their graves. 
Perchance the living still may look 
Into the pages of this book. 
And see the days of long ago 
Floating and fleeting to and fro 
As in the well-remembered brook. 
They saw the inverted landscape gleam, 
And their own faces like a dream 
Look up upon them from below. 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER 
POEMS. 




FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 

Or solitary mere. 
Or where the sluggish meadow-brook 
delivers 

Its waters to the weir ! 

Thou laughest at the mill, the whir and 
worry 
Of spindle and of loom. 
And the great wheel that toils amid the 
hurry 
And rushing of the flume. 



Born in the purple, born to joy and 
pleasance, 
Thou dost not toil nor spin, 
But makest glad and radiant with thy 
presence 
The meadow and the lin. 

The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping 
banner, 
And round thee throng and run 
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy 
manor. 
The outlaws of the sun. 



PALING EAmSIS. 



529 



The burnished dragon-fly is thine attend- 
ant, 
And tilts against the field, 
And down the listed sunbeam rides re- 
splendent 
With steel-blue mail and shield. 

Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest. 
Who, armed with golden rod 

And winged with the celestial azure, 
bearest 
The message of some God. 



Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded 
cities 

Hauntest the sylvan streams, 
Playing on pipes of reed the artless ditties 

That come to us as dreams. 

O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the 
river 
Linger to kiss thy feet ! 
O flower of song, bloom on, and make 
forever 
The world more fair and sweet 




PALINGENESIS. 

I LAY upon the headland-height, and 

listened 
To the incessant sobbing of the sea 

In caverns under me. 
And watched the waves, that tossed and 
fled and glistened, 
34 



Until the rolling meadows of amethyst 
Melted away in mist. 

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I 

started ; 
For round about me all the sunny 

capes 
Seemed peopled with the shapes 



S30 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



Of those whom I had known in days de- 
parted, 
Apparelled in the loveliness which 
gleams 
On faces seen in dreams. 

A moment only, and the light and glory 
Faded away, and the disconsolate shore 

Stood lonely as before ; 
And the wild-roses of the promontory 
Around me shuddered in the wind, and 
shed 

Their petals of pale red. 

There was an old belief that in the 

embers 
Of all things their primordial form exists, 

And cunning alchemists 
Could re-create the rose with all its mem- 
bers 
From its own ashes, but without the 
bloom. 
Without the lost perfume. 

Ah me ! what wonder-working, occult 

science 
Can from the ashes in our hearts once 
more 
The rose of youth restore ? 
What craft of alchemy can bid defiance 
To time and change, and for a single 
hour 
Renew this phantom-flower .' 

"O, give me back," I cried, "the van- 
ished splendors, 
The breath of morn, and the exultant 
strife, 
When the swift stream of life 
Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and sur- 
renders 
The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap 
Into the unknown deep ! " 

And the sea answered, with a lamenta- 
tion, 
Like some old prophet wailing, and it 
said, 
" Alas ! thy youth is dead ! 
It breathes no more, its heart has no 

pulsation ; 
In the dark places with the dead of old 
It lies forever cold ! " 



Then said I, " From its consecrated cere- 
ments 
I will not drag this sacred dust again, 

Only to give me pain ; 
But, still remembering all the lost en- 
dearments, 
Go on my way, like one who looks be- 
fore, 
And turns to weep no more." 

Into what land of harvests, what planta- 
tions 
Bright with autumnal foliage and the 
glow 
Of sunsets burning low ; 
Beneath what midnight skies, whose con- 
stellations 
Light up the spacious avenues between 
This world and the unseen ! 

Amid what friendly greetings and ca- 
resses, 
What households, though not alien, yet 
not mine, 
What bowers of rest divine ; 
To what temptations in lone wildernesses. 
What famine of the heart, what pain and 
loss, 
The bearing of what cross ! 

I do not know ; nor will I vainly ques- 
tion 
Those pages of the mystic book which 
hold 
The story still untold. 
But without rash conjecture or sugges- 
tion 
Turn its last leaves in reverence and 
good heed, 
Until " The End " I read. 



THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD. 

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken 
Pleasant visions, as of old ! 

Though the house by winds be shaken. 
Safe I keep this room of gold ! 

Ah, no longer wizard Fancy 
Builds her castles in the air, 

Luring me by necromancy 
Up the never-ending stair ! 



THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY. 53 1 


But, instead, she builds me bridges 


From a school-boy at his play, 


Over many a dark ravine, 


When tiiey both were young together. 


Where beneath the gusty ridges 


Heart of youth and summer weather 


Cataracts dash and roar unseen. 


Making all their holiday. 


And I cross them, little heeding 


And the night-wind rising, hark ! 


Blast of wind or torrent's roar, 


How above there in the dark, 


As I follow the receding 


In the midnight and the snow. 


Footsteps that have gone before. 


Ever wilder, fiercer, grander. 




Like the trumpets of Iskander, 


Naught avails the imploring gesture. 


All the noisy chimneys blow ! 


Naught avails the cry of pain ! 




When I touch the flying vesture, 


Every quivering tongue of flame 


'T is the gray robe of the rain. 


Seems to murmur some great name, 




Seems to say to me, " Aspire ! " 


BafHed I return, and, leaning 


But the night-wind answers, " Hollow 


O'er the parapets of cloud. 


Are the visions that you follow, 


Watch the mist that intervening 


Into darkness sinks your fire ! " 


Wraps the valley in its shroud. 






Then the flicker of the blaze 


And the sounds of life ascending 


Gleams on volumes of old days, 


Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, 


Written by masters of the art, 


Murmur of bells and voices blending 


Loud through whose majestic pages 


With the rush of waters near. 


Rolls the melody of ages, 




Throb the harp-strings of the heart. 


Well I know what there lies hidden, 




Every tower and town and farm. 


And again the tongues of flame 


And again the land forbidden 


Start exulting and exclaim : 


Reassumes its vanished charm. 


" These are prophets, bards, and seers ; 




In the horoscope of nations. 


Well I know the secret places. 


Like ascendant constellations. 


And the nests in hedge and tree ; 


They control the coming years." 


At what doors are friendly faces, 




In what hearts are thoughts of me. 


But the night-wind cries : " Despair ! 




Those who walk with feet of air 


Through the mist and darkness sinking, 


Leave no long-enduring marks ; 


Blown by wind and beaten by shower. 


At God's forges incandescent 


Down I fling the thought I'm thinking, 


Mighty hammers beat incessant. 


Down I toss this Alpine flower. 


These are but the flying sparks. 




" Dust are all the hands that wrought ; 


THE WIND OVER THE CHIM- 


Books are sepulchres of thought ; 


NEY. 


The dead laurels of the dead 




Rustle for a moment only. 


See, the fire is sinking low. 


Like the withered leaves in lonely 


Dusky red the embers glow. 


Churchyards at some passing tread." 


While above them still I cower, 




While a moment more I linger. 


Suddenly the flame sinks down ; 


Though the clock, with lifted finger. 


Sink the rumors of renown ; 


Points beyond the midnight hour. 


And alone the night-wind drear 




Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, — 


Sings the blackened log a tune 


" 'T is the brand of Meleager 


Learned in some forgotten June 


Dying on the hearth-stone here ! " 



532 



FLOWEK-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



And I answer, — " Though it be, 
Why should that discomfort me ? 
No endeavor is in vain ; 



Its reward is in the doing. 
And the rapture of pursuing 

Is the prize tlie vanquished gain. 




HAWTHORNE. 

MAY 23, 1864. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright 
day 
In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not chase 
away 
The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple- 
blooms, 
And the great elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial 
looms, 
Shot through with golden thread. 



Across the meadows, by the gray old 
manse, 

The historic river flowed : 
I was as one who wanders in a trance. 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed 
strange : 
Their voices I could hear, 
And yet the words they uttered seemed 
to change 
Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not there, 
The one low voice was mute ; 

Only an unseen presence filled the air. 
And baffled my pursuit. 



THE BELLS OF LYNN. 



533 



Now I look back, and meadow, manse, 


The hearth-stones of a continent. 


and stream 


And made forlorn 


Dimly my thought defines ; 


The households born 


I only see — a dream within a dream — 


Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 


The hill-top hearsed with pines. 






And in despair I bowed my head ; 


I only hear above his place of rest 


" There is no peace on earth," I said ; 


Their tender undertone, 


" For hate is strong. 


The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 


And mocks the song 


The voice so like his own. 


Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! " 


There in seclusion and remote from men 


Then pealed the bells more loud and 


The wizard hand lies cold. 


deep : 


Which at its topmost speed let fall the 


" God is not dead ; nor doth he sleep ! 


pen, 


The Wrong shall fail. 


And left the tale half told. 


The Right prevail. 




With peace on earth, good-will to men ! " 


Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic 




power, 




And the lost clew regain ? 




The unfinished window in Aladdin's 


THE BELLS OF LYNN. 


tower 




Unfinished must remain ! 


HEARD AT NAHANT. 




O CURFEW of the setting sun ! O Bells 




of Lynn ! 




O requiem of the dying day ! O Bells of 


CHRISTMAS BELLS. 


Lynn ! 


I HEARD the bells on Christmas Day 


From the dark belfries of yon cloud- 


Their old, familiar carols play. 


cathedral wafted. 


And wild and sweet 


Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells 


The words repeat 


of Lynn ! 


Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 






Borne on the evening wind across the 


And thought how, as the day had come. 


crimson twilight. 


The belfries of all Christendom 


O'er land and sea they rise and fall, 


Had rolled along 


Bells of Lynn ! 


The unbroken song 




Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 


The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond 




the headland. 


Till, ringing, singing on its way, 


Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O 


The world revolved from night to day, 


Bells of Lynn ! 


A voice, a chime. 




A chant sublime 


Over the shining sands the wandering 


Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 


cattle homeward 




Follow each other at your call, O Bells of 


Then from each black, accursed mouth 


Lynn ! 


The cannon thundered in the South, 




And with the sound 


The distant lighthouse hears, and with 


The carols drowned 


his flaming signal 


Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 


Answers you, passing the watchword on, 


It was as if an earthciuake rent 


O Bells of Lynn ! 



534 I-LOl VER-DE-L UCE, 


AND OTHER POEMS. 


And down the darkening coast run the 


And the vast minster seems a cross of 


tumultuous surges, 


flowers ! 


And clap their hands, and shout to you, 


But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled 


O Bells of Lynn ! 


eaves 




Watch the dead Christ between the 


Till from the shuddering sea, with your 


living thieves, 


wild incantations, 


And, underneath, the traitor Judas 


Ye summon up the spectral moon, O 


lowers ! 


Bells of Lynn ! 


Ah ! from what agonies of heart and 




brain, 


And startled at the sight, like the weird 


What exultations trampling on despair, 


woman of Endor, 


What tenderness, what tears, what 


Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells 


hate of wrong. 


of Lynn ! 


What passionate outcry of a soul in 




pain. 




Uprose this poem of the earth and air. 




This mediaeval miracle of song ! 


DIVINA COMMEDIA. 


IIL 


I. 


I ENTKR, and I see thee in the gloom 


Okt have I seen at some cathedral dooi 


Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine ! 


A laborer, pausing in the dust and 


And strive to make my steps keep pace 


heat. 


with thine. 


Lay down his burden, and with rever- 


The air is filled with some unknown 


ent feet 


perfume ; 


Enter, and cross himself, and on the 


The congregation of the dead make room 


floor 


For thee to pass ; the votive tapers 


Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er ; 


shine ; 


Far off the noises of the world retreat ; 


Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's 


The loud vociferations of the street 


groves of pine 


Become an undistinguishable roar. 


The hovering echoes fly from tomb ta 


So, as I enter here from day to day. 


tomb. 


And leave my burden at this minster 


From the confessionals I hear arise 


gate. 


Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies. 


Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed 


And lamentations from the crypts be- 


to pray, 


low ; 


The tumult of the time disconsolate 


And then a voice celestial, that begins 


To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 


With the pathetic words, "Although 


While the eternal ages watch and wait 


your sins 




As scarlet be," and ends with " as the 


II. 


snow." 

IV. 


How strange the sculptures that adorn 




these towers ! 


With snow-white veil, and garments as 


This crowd of statues, in whose folded 


of flame, 


sleeves 


She stands before thee, who so long ago 


Birds build their nests ; while canopied 


Filled thy young heart with passion 


with leaves 


and the woe 


Parvis and portal bloom like trellised 


From which thy song in all its splen- 


bowers, 


dors came ; 



TO-MORROW. 



535 



And while with stern rebuke she speaks 


Forerunner of the day that is to be ! 


thy name, 


The voices of the city and the sea, 


The ice about thy heart melts as the 


The voices of the mountains and the 


snow 


pines, 


On mountain heights, and in swift 


Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines 


overflow 


Are footpaths for the thought of Italy ! 


Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs ot 


Thy fame is blown abroad from all the 


shame. 


heights. 


Thou makest full confession ; and a 


Through all the nations, and a sound 


gleam 


is heard. 


As of the dawn on some dark forest 


As of a mighty wind, and men devout. 


cast. 


Strangers of Rome, and the new prose- 


Seems on thy lifted forehead to in- 


lytes. 


crease ; 


In their own language hear thy won- 


Lethe and Eunoe — the remembered 


drous word. 


dream 


And many are amazed and many doubt. 


And the forgotten sorrow — bring at 




last 




That perfect pardon which is perfect 


TO-MORROW. 


peace. 






'Tis late at night, and in the realm of 


V. 


sleep 




My little lambs are folded like the 


I Lipr mine eyes, and all the windows 


flocks ; 


blaze 


From room to room I hear the wakeful 


With forms of saints and holy men 


clocks 


who died. 


Challenge the passing hour, like guards 


Here martyred and hereafter glorified ; 


that keep 


And the great Rose upon its leaves 


Their solitary watch on tower and steep ; 


displays 


Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, 


Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roun- 


And through the opening door that 


delays, 


time unlocks 


With splendor upon splendor multi- 


Feel the fresh breathing of To-moirow 


plied ; 


creep. 


And Beatrice again at Dante's side 


ro-morrow ! the mysterious, unknown 


No more rebukes, but smiles her words 


guest. 


of praise. 


Who cries to me : " Remember Bar- 


And then the organ sounds, and unseen 


mecide, 


choirs 


And tremble to be happy with the rest." 


Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and 


And I make answer : " I am satisfied ; 


love. 


I dare not ask ; I know not what is 


And benedictions of the Holy Ghost ; 


best; 


And the melodious bells among the spires 


God hath already said what shall be- 


O'er all the house-tops and tlfrough 


tide." 


heaven above 




Proclaim the elevation of the Host ! 






KILLED AT THE FORD. 


VI. 


He is dead, the beautiful youth, 


O STAR of morning and of liberty ! 


The heart of honor, the tongue of truth. 


O bringcr of the light, whose splendor 


He, the life and light of us all. 


shines 


Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call. 


Above the darkness of the Aj^ennines, 


Whom all eyes followed with one consent, 



536 



FLOWER-DE-LUCE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



The cheer of whose laugli, and whose 

pleasant word, 
Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 

Only last night, as we rode along 
Down the dark of the mountain gap, 
To visit the picket-guard at the ford, 
Little dreaming of any mishap, 
He was humming the words of some old 
song : 



" Two red roses he had on his cap 

And another he bore at the point of his 

sword." 

Sudden and swift a whistling ball 

Came out of a wood, and the voice was 

still ; 
Something I heard in the darkness fall. 
And for a moment my blood grew chill. 
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks 




In a room where some one is lying 

dead ; 
But he made no answer to what I said. 

We lifted him up to his saddle again. 
And through the mire and the mist and 
the rain 



Carried him back to the silent camp. 
And laid him as if asleep on his bed ; 
And I saw by the light of the surgeon's 

lamp 
Two white roses upon his cheeks, 
And one, just over his heart, blood red ! 
And I saw in a vision how far and fleet 



GIOTTO'S TOWER. 



537 



That fatal bullet went speeding forth, 


And a bell was tolled in that far-off 


Till it reached a town in the distant 


town. 


North, 


For one who had passed from cross to 


Till it reached a house in a sunny street, 


crown, 


Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat 


And the neighbors wondered that she 


Without a murmur, without a cry ; 


should die. 




GIOTTO'S TOWER. 

How many lives, made beautiful and 
sweet 
By self-devotion and by self-restraint. 
Whose pleasure is to run without com- 
plaint 
On unknown errands of the Paraclete, 
Wanting the reverence of unshodden 
feet. 



1 , i i ihc nimbus which the artists 
paint 

Around the shining forehead of the 
saint, 

And are in their completeness incom- 
plete ! 
In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's 
tower. 

The lilv of Florence blossoming in 
stone, — 

A vision, a delight, and a desire, — 



538 FLOWER-DE-LUCE, 


4ND OTHER POEMS 


- 


The builder's perfect and centennial 


A cote marchait un vieux 


flower, 


Hidalgo, mais non mousseux ; 




That in the night of ages bloomed 


Dans le temps de Charlemagne 




alone, 


Fut son pere Grand d'Espagne ! 




But wanting still the glory of the spire. 


" Bons amis 
J'ai dine chez Agassiz ! " 

Derriere eux un Bordelais, 
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais, 




NOEL. 


Parfume de poesie 

Riait, chantait, plein de vie, 




ENVOYE A M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE DE 


" Bons amis. 




NOiiL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER DE VINS 


J'ai soupe chez Agassiz ! " 




DIVERS. 


Avec ce beau cadet roux. 




L'Academie en respect, 
Nonobstant I'incorrection, 


Bras dessus et bras dessous, 




A la faveur du sujet, 


Mine altiere et couleur terne, 




Ture-lure, 


Vint le Sire de Sauterne ; 




N'y fera point de rature ; 


" Bons amis, 




Noel ! ture-lure-lure. 

Gui-Barozai. 


J'ai couche chez Agassiz ! " 




QuAND les astres de Noel 


Mais le dernier de ces preux, 




Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, 


Etait un pauvre Chartreux, 




Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, 


Qui disait, d'un ton robuste. 




Chantaient gaiment dans le givre, 


" Benedictions sur le Juste ! 




" Bons amis 


Bons amis 




Allons done chez Agassiz ! " 


Benissons Pere Agassiz ! " 




Ces illustres Pelerins 


lis arrivent trois \ trois. 




D'Outre-Mer adroits et fins, 


Montent I'escalier de bois 




Se donnant des airs de pretre, 


Clopin-clopant ! quel gendarme 




A I'envi se vantaient d'etre 


Pent permettre ce vacarme, 




" Bons amis 


Bons amis. 




De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz ! " 


A la porte d' Agassiz ! 




OEil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, 


" Ouvrez done, mon bon Seigneur. 




Sans reproche et sans pudeur. 


Ouvrez vite et n'ayez peur ; 




Dans son patois de Bourgogne, 


Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes 




Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, 


Gens de bien et gentilshommes. 




" Bons amis, 


Bons amis 




*T'ai danse chez Agassiz ! " 


De la famille Agassiz ! " 




Verzenay le Champenois, 


Chut, ganaches ! taisez-vous ! 




Bon Fran9ais, point New-Yorquois, 


C'en est trop de vos glouglous ; 




Mais des environs d'Avize, 


Epargnez aux Phiiosophes 




Fredonne a mainte reprise, 


Vos abominables strophes ! 




" Bons amis, 


Bons amis, 




J'ai chante chez Agassiz ! " 


Respectez mon Agassiz ! 





JUDAS MACCABEUS. 


ACT I. 


Jason. They shall have them all. 




Ant. By Heracles ! but I should like 


The Citadel of Aiitioc/tus at yenisalem. 


to see 




These Hebrews crowned with ivy, and 


Scene I. — Antiuchus ; Jason. 


arrayed 




In skins of fawns, with drums and flutes 


Antioc/iics. O Antioch, my Antioch, 


and thyrsi, 


my city ! 


Revel and riot through the solemn 


Queen of the East ! my solace, my 


streets 


delight ! 


Of their old town. Ha, ha ! It makes 


The dowry of my sister Cleopatra 


me merry 


When she was wed to Ptolemy, and 


Only to think of it ! — Thou dost not 


now 


laugh. 


Won back and made more wonderful by 


Jason. Yea, I laugh inwardly. 


me ! 


Ant. The new Greek leaven 


I love thee, and I long to be once more 


Works slowly in this Israelitish dough ! 


Among the players and the dancing 


Have I not sacked the Temple, and on 


women 


the altar 


Within thy gates, and bathe in the 


Set up the Statue of Olympian Zeus 


Orontes, 


To Hellenize it.' 


Thy river and mine. O Jason, my 


Jason. Thou hast done all this. 


High-Priest, 


Ant. As thou wast Joshua once and 


For I have made thee so, and thou art 


now art Jason, 


mine. 


And from a Hebrew hast become a 


Hast thou seen Antioch the Beautiful ? 


Greek, 


Jason. Never, my Lord. 


So shall this Hebrew nation be trans- 


Ant. Then hast thou never seen 


lated, 


The wonder of the world. This city of 


Their very natures and their names be 


David 


changed. 


Compared with Antioch is but a vil- 


And all be Ilellenized. 


lage. 


Jason. It shall be done. 


And its inhabitants compared with 


.'/;//. Their manners and their laws 


Greeks 


and way of living 


Are mannerless boors. 


Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn 


Jason. They are barbarians, 


their language, 


And mannerless. 


And learn the lovely speech of Antioch. 


A)it. They must be civilized. 


Where hast thou been to-day ? Thou 


They must be made to have more gods 


com est late. 


than one ; 


Jason. Playing at discus with the other 


And goddesses besides. 


jjriests 


Jason. They shall have more. 


In the Gymnasium. 


A)it. They must have hippodromes, 


Ant. Thou hast done well. 


and games, and baths, 


There 's nothing better for you lazy 


Stage-plays and festivals, and mos^ of 


priests 


all 


Than discus-playing with the common 


The Dionysia. 


]>eo]ile. 



54° JUDAS MACCAByEUS. 


Now tell me, Jason, what these Hebrews 


Scene II. — Antiochus ; Jason ; the 


call me 


Samaritan Ambassadors. 


When they converse together at their 




games. 


Ant. Approach. Come forward ; stand 


Jason. Antiochus Epiphanes, my 


not at the door 


Lord ; 


Wagging your long beards, but demean 


Antiochus the Illustrious. 


yourselves 


A)it. O, not that ; 


As doth become Ambassadors. What 


That is the public cry ; I mean the 


seek ye ? 


name 


An Ambassador. An audience from 


They give me when they talk among 


the King. 


themselves. 


Ant. Speak, and be brief. 


And think that no one listens ; what is 


Waste not the time in useless rhetoric. 


that } 


Words are not things. 


Jason. Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord ! 


Ambassador {reading). " To King 


Anf. Antiochus the Mad ! Ay, that 


Antiochus, 


is it. 


The God, Epiphanes ; a Memorial 


And who hath said it .'' Who hath set in 


From the Sidonians, who live at Sichem." 


motion 


Ant. Sidonians ? 


That sorry jest ^ 


Ambassador. Ay, my Lord. 


Jason. The Seven Sons insane 


Ant. Go on, go on ! 


Of a weird woman, like themselves 


And do not tire thyself and me with 


insane. 


bowing ! 


A/it. I like their courage, but it shall 


Ambassador {reading). "We are a col- 


not save them. 


ony of Medes and Persians." 


They shall be made to eat the flesh of 


Ant. No, ye are Jews from one of the 


swine, 


Ten Tribes ; 


Or they shall die. Where are they ? 


Whether Sidonians or Samaritans 


Jason. In the dungeons 


Or Jews of Jewry, matters not to me ; 


Beneath this tower. 


Ye are all Israelites, ye are all Jews. 


Ant. There let them stay and starve, 


When the Jews prosper, ye claim kindred 


Till I am ready to make Greeks of them, 


with them ; 


After my fashion. 


When the Jews suffer, ye are Medes and 


Jason. They shall stay and starve. — 


Persians : 


My Lord, the Ambassadors of Samaria 


I know that in the days of Alexander 


Await thy pleasure. 


Ye claimed exemption from the annual 


An/. Why not my displeasure ? 


tribute 


Ambassadors are tedious. They are 


In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye said. 


men 


Your fields had not been planted in that 


Who work for their own ends, and not 


year. 


for mine ; 


Ambassador {reading). " Our fathers. 


There is no furtherance in them. Let 


upon certain frequent plagues, 


them go 


And following an ancient superstition. 


To Apollonius, my governor 


Were long accustomed to observe that 


There in Samaria, and not trouble me. 


day 


What do they want ? 


Which by the Israelites is called the 


Jason. Only the royal sanction 


Saijbath, 


To give a name unto a nameless temple 


And in a temple on Mount Gerizim 


Upon Mount Gerizim. 


Without a name, they offered sacrifice. 


Ant. Then bid them enter. 


Now we, who are Sidonians, beseech thee, 


This pleases me, and furthers my designs. 


Who art our benefactor and our savior, 


The occasion is auspicious. Bid them 


Not to confound us with these wicked 


enter. 


Jews, 



JUDAS MACCAByEUS. 541 


But to give royal order and injunction 


Waste as a wilderness. Its thoroughfares 


To Apollonius in Samaria, 


Siiall be but furrows in a field of ashes. 


Thy governor, and likewise to Nicanor, 


It shall be sown with salt as Sodom is ! 


Thy procurator, no more to molest us ; 


This hundred and fifty-third Olympiad 


And let our nameless temple now be 


Shall have a broad and blood-red seal 


named 


upon it, 


The Temple of Jupiter Hellenius." 


Stamped with the awful letters of my ' 


Ant. This shall be done. Full well it 


name, 


pleaseth me 


Antiochus the God, Epiphancs ! — 


Ve are not Jews, or are no longer Jews, 


Where are those Seven Sons.' 


But Greeks ; if not by birth, yet Greeks 


Jason. My Lord, they wait 


by custom. 


Thy royal pleasure. 


Your nameless temple shall receive the 


Ant. They shall wait no longer ! 


name 




Of Jupiter Hellenius. Ye may go ! 






ACT II. 


Scene III. — Antiochus ; Jasox. 


77/1' Dungeons in the Citadel. 


Ant. My task is easier than I dreamed. 
These people 
Meet me half-way. Jason, didst thou 


Scene I. — The '^Iothv.r of the Seven 
Sons alone, listening. 


take note 


The Mother. Be strong, my heart ! 


How these Samaritans of Sichem said 


Break not till they are dead, 


They were not Jews ? that they were 


All, all my Seven Sons ; then burst 


Medes and Persians, 


asunder. 


They were Sidonians, anything but Jews .' 


And let this tortured and tormented soul 


'T is of good augury. The rest will fol- 


Leap and rush out like water through the 


low 


shards 


Till the whole land is Hellenized. 


Of earthen vessels broken at a well. 


Jason. My Lord, 


my dear children, mine in life and 


These are Samaritans. The tribe of 


death. 


Judah 


I know not how ye came into my womb ; 


Is of a different temper, and the task 


I neither gave you breath, nor gave you 


Will be more difficult. 


life. 


Ant. Dost thou gainsay me ? 


And neither was it I that formed the 


Jason. I know the stubborn nature of 


members 


the Jew. 


Of every one of you. But the Creator, 


Yesterday, Eleazer, an old man. 


Who made the world, and made the 


Being fourscore years and ten, chose 


heavens above us, 


rather death 


Who formed the generation of man- 


P.y torture than to eat the flesh of swine. 


kind, 


.4nt. The life is in the blood, and the 


And found out the beginning of all 


whole nation 


things, 


Shall bleed to death, or it shall change 


He gave you breath and life, and will 


its faith ! 


again 


Jason. Hundreds have fled already to 


Of his own mercy, as ye now regard 


the mountains 


Not your own selves, but his eternal 


Of Ephraim, where Judas Maccabeus 


law. 


Hath raised the standard of revolt against 


I do not murmur, nav, I thank thee. 


thee. 


God, 


A/it. I will burn down their city, and 


That I and mine have not been deemed 


will make it 


unworthy 



542 JUDAS MACCABEUS. 


To suffer for thy sake, and for thy law, 


Witness of God ! if thou for whom I 


And for the many sins of Israel. 


feared 


Hark ! I can hear within the sound of 


Canst thus encounter death, I need not 


scourges ! 


fear ; 


I feel them more than ye do, O my sons ! 


The others will not shrink. 


But cannot come to you. I, who was 


Third Voice {within). Behold these 


wont 


hands 


To wake at night at the least cry ye 


Held out to thee, O King Antiochus, 


made, 


Not to implore thy mercy, but to show 


To whom ye ran at every slightest hurt, — 


That I despise them. He who gave 


I cannot take you now into my lap 


them to me 


And soothe your pain, but God will take 


Will give them back again. 


you all 


The Mother. O Avilan, 


Into his pitying arms, and comfort you, 


It is thy voice. For the last time I hear it ; 


And give you rest. 


For the last time on earth, but not the 


A Voice {within). What wouldst thou 


last. 


ask of us ? 


To death it bids defiance and to torture. 


Ready are we to die, but we will never 


It sounds to me as from another world, 


Transgress the law and customs of our 


And makes the petty miseries of this 


fathers. 


Seem unto me as naught, and less than 


The A/other. It is the voice of my 


naught. 


first-born ! O brave 


Farewell, my Avilan ; nay, I should say 


And noble boy ! Thou hast the jirivi- 


Welcome, my Avilan ; for I am dead 


lege 


Before thee. I am waiting for the others. 


Of dying first, as thou wast born the first. 


Why do they linger? 


The same Voice (7vithin). God looketh 


Fourth Voice {within). It is good, O 


on us, and hath comfort in us ; 


King, 


As Moses in his song of old declared, 


Being put to death by men, to look for 


He in his servants shall be comforted. 


hope 


The Mother. I knew thou wouldst not 


From God, to be raised up again by him. 


fail ! — He speaks no more, 


But thou — no resurrection shalt thou 


He is beyond all pain ! 


have 


Ant. {within). If thou eat not 


To life hereafter. 


Thou shalt be tortured throughout all 


The Mother. Four ! already four ! 


the members 


Three are still living ; nay, they all are 


Of thy whole body. Wilt thou eat then } 


living. 


Second Voice {within). No. 


Half here, half there. Make haste, Anti- 


The Mother. It is Adaiah's voice. I 


ochus, 


tremble for him. 


To reunite us ; for the sword that cleaves 


I know his nature, devious as the wind, 


These miserable bodies makes a door 


And swift to change, gentle and yielding 


'I'hrough which our souls, impatient of 


always. 


release. 


Be steadfast, O my son ! 


Rush to each other's arms. 


TJie same Voice {witliin). Thou, like a 


Fifth Voice {within). Thou hast the 


fury. 


power ; 


Takest us from this present life, but God, 


Thou doest what thou wilt. Abide 


Who rules the world, shall raise us up 


awhile. 


again 


And thou shalt see the power of God, 


Into life everlasting. 


and how 


The Mother. God, I thank thee 


He will torment thee and thy seed. 


That thou hast breathed into that timid 


The Mother. O hasten ; 


heart 


Why dost thou pause 1 Thou who hast 


Courage to die for thee. O my Adaiah, 


slain already 



JUDAS MACCABAiUS. 543 


•So many Hebrew women, and hast hung 


That were my children once, and still are 


'I'heir niiirdercd infants round their necks, 


mine. 


slay nie. 


I cannot watch o'er you as Rispah 


For I too am a woman, and these boys 


watched 


Are mine. Make haste to slay us all, 


In sackcloth o'er the seven sons of Saul, 


And hang my lifeless babes about my 


Till water drop upon you out of heaven 


neck. 


And wash this blood away ! I cannot 


Sixth Voice {ivif/iiii). Think not, An- 


mourn 


tiochus, that takest in hand 


As she, the daughter of Aiah, mourned 


'I'o strive against the God of Israel, 


the dead. 


Thou shalt escape unpunished, for his 


From the beginning of the barley-harvest 


wrath 


Until the autumn rains, and suffered not 


Shall overtake thee and thy bloody liouse. 


The birds of air to rest on them by day. 


T/w Motlier. One more, my Sirion, 


Nor the wild beasts by night. For ye 


and then all is ended. 


have died 


Having put all to bed, then in my turn 


A better death, a death so full of life 


I will lie down and sleep as sound as 


That I ought rather to rejoice than 


they. 


mourn. — 


My Sirion, my youngest, best beloved ! 


Wherefore art thou not dead, O Sirion ? 


And those bright golden locks, that I so 


Wherefore art thou the only living thing 


oft 


Among thy brothers dead .' Art thou 


Have curled about these fingers, even 


afraid ? 


now 


Ant. woman, I have spared him for 


Are foul with blood and dust, like a 


thy sake. 


lamb's fleece. 


For he is fair to look upon and comely ; 


Slain in the shambles. — Not a sound I 


And I have sworn to him by all the gods 


hear. 


That I would crown his life with joy and 


This silence is more terrible to me 


honor. 


Than any sound, than any cry of pain, 


Heap treasures on him, luxuries, de- 


That might escape the lips of one wliu 


lights. 


dies. 


Make him my friend and keeper of mv 


Doth his heart fail him ? Doth he fall 


secrets, 


away 


If he would turn from your Mosaic Law 


In the last hour from God .' O Sirion, 


And be as we are ; but he will not listen. 


Sirion, 


The Mother. My noble Sirion ! 


Art thou afraid ? I do not hear thy 


Ant. Therefore I beseech thee. 


voice. 


Who art his mother, thou wouldst speak 


Die as thy brothers died. Thou must 


with him. 


not live ! 


And wouldst persuade him. I am sick 




of blood. 




The Mother. Yea, I will speak with 


Scene II. — The Mother; Antfo- 


him and will persuade him. 


CHUs ; Sirion. 


Sirion, my son ! have pity on me. 




On me that bear thee, and that gave thee 


The Mother. Are they all dead ? 


suck, 


Ant. Of all thy Seven Sons 


And fed and nourished thee, and l)rought 


One only lives, liehold thenr wiiere they 


thee up 


lie ; 


With the dear trouble of a mother's care 


How dost thou like this picture ? 


Unto this age. Look on the heavens 


The Mother. God in heaven ! 


above thee. 


Can a man do such deeds, and yet not die 


And on the earth and all tliat is therein ; 


By the recoil of his own wickedness ? 


Consider that God made them out of 


Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated bodies 


things 



544 JUDAS MACCAByEUS. 


That were not ; and that lil^ewise in this 


Nor wilt thou hear, amid thy troubled 


manner 


dreams, 


Manlvind was made. Then fear not this 


Thy children crying for thee in the night ! 


tormentor ; 


The Mother. O Death, that stretchest 


But, being worthy of thy brethren, take 


thy white hands to me. 


Thy death as they did, that I may receive 


I fear them not, but press them to my 


thee 


lips, 


Again in mercy with them- 


That are as white as thine ; for I am 


Anf. I am mocked, 


Death, 


Yea, I am laughed to scorn. 


Nay, am the Mother of Death, seeing 


Sirion. Whom wait ye for ? 


these sons 


Never will I obey the King's command- 


All lying lifeless. — Kiss me, Sirion. 


ment, 




But the commandment of the ancient 




Law, 
That was by Moses given unto our 


ACT HL 


fathers. 
And thou, O godless man, that of all 


The Battle-field of Beth-horon. 


others 
Art the most wicked, be not lifted up. 


Scene L — Judas Maccab.ijus in a)-mor 
bejore his tent. 


Nor puffed up with uncertain hopes, up- 




lifting 


Judas. The trumpets sound ; the 


Thy hand against the servants of the 


echoes of the mountains. 


Lord, 


Answer them, as the Sabbath morning 


For thou hast not escapee! the righteous 


breaks 


judgment 


Over Beth-horon and its battle-field. 


Of the Almighty God, who seeth all 


Where the great captain of the hosts of 


things ! 


God, 


Aiil. He is no God of mine ; I fear 


A slave brought up in the brick-fields of 


him not. 


Egypt, 


Sirion. My brothers, who have suf- 


O'ercame the Amorites. There was no day 


fered a brief pain. 


Like that, before or after it, nor shall be. 


Are dead ; but thou, Antiochus, shalt 


The sun stood still ; the hammers of the 


suffer 


hail 


The punishment of pride. I offer up 


Beat on their harness ; and the captains 


My body and my life, beseeching God 


set 


That he would speedily be merciful 


Their weary feet upon the neck^ of kings. 


Unto our nation, and that thou by plagues 


As I will upon thine, Antiochus, 


Mysterious and by torments mayest con- 


Thou man of blood ! — Behold the rising 


fess 


sun 


That he alone is God. 


Strikes on the golden letters of my ban- 


Ant. Ye both shall perish 


ner. 


By torments worse than any that your 


Be Elohini Yehovah I Who is like 


God, 


To thee, O Lord, among the gods .? 


Here or hereafter, hath in store for me. 


— Alas ! 


The Mother. My Sirion, I am proud of 


I am not Joshua, I cannot say, 


thee ! 


" Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon, and 


Ant. Be silent ! 


thou Moon, 


Go to thy bed of torture in yon chamber. 


In Ajalon ! " Nor am I one who wastes 


Where lie so many sleepers, heartless 


The fateful time in useless lamentation ; 


mother ! 


But one who bears his life upon his hand 


Thy footsteps will not wake them, nor 


To lose it or to save it, as may best 


thy voice. 


Serve the designs of Him who giveth life. 



JUDAS MACCABAiUS. 545 


Scene II. — Judas Maccab.eus ; 


Are better things than sackcloth. Let 


Jewish P'ugitives. 


the women 




Lament for Israel ; the men should die. 


Judas. Who and what are ye, that 


Fugitives. Both men and women die ; 


with furtive steps 


old men and young : 


Steal in among our tents ? 


Old Eleazer died : and Mahala 


Fugitives. O Maccal)3eus, 


With all her Seven Sons. 


Outcasts are we, and fugitives as thou art, 


Judas. Antiochus, 


Jews of Jerusalem, that have escaped 


At every step thou takest there is left 


From the polluted city, and from death. 


A bloody footprint in the street, by which 


Judas. None can escape from death. 


The avenging wrath of God will track 


Say that ye come 


thee out ! 


To die for Israel, and ye are welcome. 


It is enough. Go to the sutler's tents : 


What tidings bring ye ? 


Those of you who are men, put on such 


Fugitivt's. Tidings of despair. 


armor 


The Temple is laid waste ; the precious 


As ye may find ; those of you who are 


vessels, 


women. 


Censers of gold, vials and veils and 


Buckle that armor on ; and for a watch- 


crowns. 


word 


And golden ornaments, and hidden treas- 


Whisper, or cry aloud, " The Help of 


ures, 


God." 


Have all been taken from it, and the 




Gentiles 




With revelling and with riot fill its courts. 


Scene III. — Judas Maccab/Eus; Ni- 


And dally with harlots in the holy places. 


CANOR. 


Judas. All this I knew before. 




Fugitives. Upon the altar 


A^ieaiior. Hail, JlkUis Maccabaeus ! 


Are things profane, things by the law for- 


Judas. Hail ! — Who art thou 


bidden ; 


That comest here in this mysterious guise 


Nor can we keep our Sabbaths or our 


Into our camp unheralded ? 


Feasts, 


iVic. A herald 


But on the festivals of Dionysus 


Sent from Nicanor. 


Must walk in their processions, bearing 


Judas. Heralds come not thus. 


ivy 


Armed with thy shirt of mail from head 


Tt) crown a drunken god. 


to heel, 


Judas. This too I know. 


Thou glidest like a serpent silently 


But tell me of the Jews. How fare the 


Into my presence. Wherefore dost thou 


Jews } 


turn 


Fugitives. The coming of this mischief 


Thy face from me .' A herald speaks his 


hath been sore 


errand 


And grievous to the people. All the 


With forehead unabashed. Thou art a spy 


^land 


Sent by Nicanor. 


Is full of lamentation and of mourning. 


A'ir. No di.sguise avails ! 


The Princes and the Elders weep and 


Behold my face ; I am Nicanor's self. 


wail ; 


Judas. Thou art indeed Nicanor. I 


The young men and the maidens arc 


salute thee. 


made feeble ; 


What brings thee hither to tliis hostile 


The beauty of the women hath been 


camp 


changed. 


Thus unattended .' 


Judas. And are there none to die for 


Nie. Confidence in thee. 


Israel ? 


Thou hast the nobler virtues of thy race. 


'T is not enough to mourn. Breastplate 


Without the failings that attend tho.sc 


and harness 


virtues. 


35 





546 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



Thou canst be strong, and yet not tyran- 
nous, 

Canst righteous be and not intolerant. 

Let there be peace between us. 

Judas. What is peace 1 

Is it to bow in silence to our victors .'' 

Is it to see our cities sacked and pillaged. 

Our people slain, or sold as slaves, or 
fleeing 

At night-time by the blaze of burning 
towns ; 

Jerusalem laid waste ; the Holy Temple 

Polluted with strange gods .-' Are these 
things peace .'' 
Nic. These are the dire necessities that 
wait 

On war, whose loud and bloody enginery 

I seek to stay. Let there be peace be- 
tween 

Antiochus and thee. 

Judas. Antiochus ? 

What is Antiochus, that he should prate 

Of peace to me, who am a fugitive .'' 

To-day he shall be lifted up ; to-morrow 

Shall not be found, because he is re- 
turned 

Unto his dust ; his thought has come to 
nothing. 

There is no peace between us, nor can 
be, 

Until this banner floats upon the walls 

Of our Jerusalem. 

Nic. Between that city 

And thee there lies a waving wall of 
tents. 

Held by a host of forty thousand foot. 

And horsemen seven thousand. What 
hast thou 

To bring against all these ? 

Judas. The power of God, 

Whose breath shall scatter your white 
tents abroad. 

As flakes of snow. 

Nic. Your Mighty One in heaven 

Will not do battle on the Seventh Day ; 

It is his day of rest. 

Judas. Silence, blasphemer. 

Go to thy tents. 

Nic. Shall it be war or peace ? 

Judas. War, war, and only war. Go 
to thy tents 

That shall be scattered, as by you were 
scattered 



The torn and trampled pages of the Law, 
Blown through the windy streets. 
A7f. Farewell, brave foe ! 

Judas. Ho, there, my captains ! Have 
safe-conduct given 
Unto Nicanor's herald through the camp. 
And come yourselves to me. — Farewell, 
Nicanor ! 



Scene IV. — Juda.s Maccabeus ; Cap- 
tains AND Soldiers. 

Judas. The hour is come. Gather the 

host together 
For battle. Lo, with trumpets and with 

songs 
The army of Nicanor comes against us. 
Go forth to meet them, praying in your 

hearts, 
And fighting with your hands. 

Captains. Look forth and see ! 

The morning sun is shining on their 

shields 
Of gold and brass ; the mountains glisten 

with them. 
And shine like lamps. And we who are 

so few 
And poorly armed, and ready to faint 

with fasting. 
How shall we fight against this multi- 
tude ? 
Judas. The victory of a battle standeth 

not 
In multitudes, but in the strength that 

Cometh 
From heaven above. The Lord forbid 

that I 
Should do this thing, and flee away from 

them. 
Nay, if our hour be come, then let us die ; 
Let us not stain our honor. 

Captains. 'Tis the Sabbath. 

Wilt thou fight on the Sabbath, Macca- 

basus ? 
Judas. Ay ; when I fight the battles of 

the Lord, 
I fight them on his day, as on all others. 
Have ye forgotten certain fugitives 
That fled once to these hills, and hid 

themselves 
In caves .' How their pursuers camped 

against them 



JUDAS MACCABEUS. 



547 



Upon the Seventh Day, and challenged 
them ? 

And how they answered not, nor cast a 
stone, 

Nor stopped the places where they lay 
concealed. 

But meekly perished with their wives 
and children, 

Even to the number of a thousand souls ? 

We who are fighting for our laws and lives 

Will not so perish. 

Captains. Lead us to the battle ! 

Judas. And let our watchword be, 
" The Help of God ! " 

Last night I dreamed a dream ; and in 
my vision 

Beheld Onias, our High-priest of old, 

Who holding up his hands prayed for 
the Jews. 

This done, in the like manner there ap- 
peared 

An old man, and exceeding glorious. 

With hoary hair, and of a wonderful 

And excellent majesty. And Onias said : 

" This is a lover of the Jews, who prayeth 

Much for the people and the Holy 
City, — 

God's prophet Jercmias." And the 
prophet 

Held forth his right hand and gave unto 
me 

A sword of gold ; and giving it he said : 

" Take thou this holy sword, a gift from 
God, 

And with it thou shalt wound thine ad- 
versaries." 
Captains. The Lord is with us ! 
Judas. Hark ! I hear the trumpets 

Sound from Beth-horon ; from the battle- 
field 

Of Joshua, where he smote the Amorites, 

.Smote the Five Kings of Eglon and of 
Jarmuth, 

Of Hebron, Lachish, and Jerusalem, 

As we to-day will smite Nicanor's hosts 

And leave a memory of great deeds be- 
hind us. 
Captains and Soldiers. The Help of 

God ! 
Judas. /?(• Elohiin Yehovah ! 

Lord, thou didst send thine Angel in the 
time 

Of Ksckias, King of Israel, 



And in the armies of Sennacherib 
Didst slay a hundred fourscore and five 

thousand. 
Wherefore, O Lord of heaven, now also 

send 
Before us a good angel for a fear. 
And throught the might of thy right arm 

let those 
Be stricken with terror that have come 

this day 
Against thy holy people to blaspheme ! 



ACT IV. 

T/ie outer Courts of the Temple at Jeru- 
salem. 

Scene I. — Judas Maccabeus; Cap- 
tains ; Jews. 

Judas. Behold, our enemies are dis- 
comfited. 

Jerusalem is fallen ; anil our banners 

Float from her battlements, and o'er her 
gates 

Nicanor's severed head, a sign of terror, 

Blackens in wind and sun. 

Captains. O Maccabasus, 

The citadel of Antiochus, wherein 

The Mother with her Seven Sons was 
murdered, 

Is still defiant. 

Judas. Wait. 

Captains. Its hateful aspect 

Insults us with the bitter memories 

Of other days. 

Judas. \\'ait ; it shall disappear 

And vanish as a cloud. First let us 
cleanse 

The Sanctuary. See, it is become 

Waste like a wilderness. Its golden 
gates 

Wrenched from their liinges and con- 
sumed by fire ; 

Shrubs growing in its courts as in a for- 
est ; 

Upon its altars hideous and strange 
idols ; 

And strewn about its pavement at my 
feet 

Its Sacred Books, iialf Innncd and 
painted o'er 



548 



JUDAS MACCABMUS. 



With images of heathen gods. 

Jews. Woe ! woe ! 

Our beauty and our glory are laid waste ! 
The Gentiles have profaned our holy 

places ! 

{Lanieiitation and alarm of trumpets.) 

Judas. This sound of trumpets, and 

this lamentation. 
The heart-cry of a people toward the 

heavens, 
Stir me to wrath and vengeance. Go, 

my captains ; 
I hold you back no longer. Batter 

down 
The citadel of Antiochus, while here 
We sweep away his altars and his gods. 



Scene II. — Judas Maccabeus ; Ja- 
son ; Jews. 

Jews. Lurking among the ruins of the 
Temple, 
Deep in its inner courts, we found this 

man, 
Clad as High-Priest 

Judas. I ask not who thou art. 

I know thy face, writ over with deceit 
As are these tattered volumes of the Law 
With heathen images. A priest of God 
Wast thou in other days, but thou art 

now 
A priest of Satan. Traitor, thou art Ja- 
son. 
Jasoti. I am thy prisoner, Judas Mac- 
cabiEus, 
And it would ill become me to conceal 
My name or office. 

Judas. Over yonder gate 

There hangs the head of one who was a 

Greek. 
What should prevent me now, thou man 

of sin, 
From hanging at its side the head of one 
Who born a Jew hath made himself a 
Greek > 
Jasau. Justice prevents thee. 
Jfdas. Justice ? Thou art stained 
With every crime 'gainst which the Dec- 
alogue 
Tliinulcrs with all its thunder. 

Jaso;/. If not Justice, 



Then Mercy, her handmaiden. 

Judas. When hast thou 

At any time, to any man or woman, 
Or even to any little child, shown mercy ? 
Jason. I have but done what King 
Antiochus 
Commanded me. 

Judas. True, thou hast been 

the weapon 
With which he struck ; but hast been 

such a weapon. 
So flexible, so fitted to his hand, 
It tempted him to strike. So thou hast 

urged him 
To double wickedness, thine own and his. 
Where is this King .' Is he in Anti- 

och 
Among his women still, and from his 

window's 
Throwing down gold by handfuls, for the 

rabble 
To scramble for .-' 

Jasou. Nay, he is gone from there. 

Gone with an army into the far East. 

Jtidas. And wherefore gone .'' 

Jason. I know not. For the space 

Of forty days almost were horsemen seen 

Running in air, in cloth of gold, and 

armed 
With lances, like a band of soldiery ; 
It was a sign of triumph. 

Judas. Or of death. 

Wherefore art thou not with him .'' 

Jason. I was left 

For ser\icc in the Temple. 

Judas. To pollute it, 

And to corrupt the Jews ; for there are 

men 
Whose ]3resence is corruption ; to be with 

them 
Degrades us and deforms the things we 
do. 
Jason. I never made a boast, as some 
men do, 
Of my superior virtue, nor denied 
The weakness of mv nature, that hath 

made me 
Subservient to the will of other men. 
Judas. Upon this day, the five and- 
twentieth day 
Of the month Caslan, was the Temple 

here 
Profaned bv strangers, — bv Antiochus 



JUDAS MACCAB^EL'S. 549 


And thee, his instrument. Upon this day 


In gods or men. Then what mysterious 


Shall it be cleansed. Thou, who didst 


charm. 


lend thyself 


What fascination is it chains my feet, 


Unto this profanation, canst not be 


And keeps me gazing like a curious child 


A witness of these solemn services. 


Into the holy places, where the priests 


There can be nothing clean where thou 


Have rai.sed their altar .' — Striking 


art present. 


stones together, 


The people put to death Callisthenes, 


They take fire out of them, and light the 


Who burned the Temple gates ; and if 


lamias 


they find thee 


In the great candlestick. They spread 


Will surely slay thee. I will spare thy 


the veils, 


life ' 


And set the loaves of showbread on the 


To punish thee the longer. Thou shalt 


table. 


wander 


The incense l)urns ; the well-remembered 


Among strange nations. Thou, that hast 


odor 


cast out 


Comes wafted unto me, and takes me 


St) many from their native land, shalt 


back 


perish 


To other days. I see mvself among them 


In a strange land. Thou, that hast left 


As I was then ; and the old superstition 


so many 


Creeps over me again ! — A childish 


Unburied, shalt have none to mourn for 


fancy ! — 


thee, 


And hark ! they sing with citherns and 


Nor any solemn funerals at all, 


with cymbals. 


Nor sepulchre with thy fathers. — Get 


And all the jjeople fall u])on their faces, 


thee hence ! 


Praying and worshipping ! — I will away 


[Music. Procession of Priests and people. 


Into the East, to meet Antiochus 


with citherns, harps, and cyvibals. Ju- 


Upon his homeward journey, crowned 


das Macc.\B.«US puts himself at their 


with triumph. 


head, and they go into the inner courts.) 


Alas ! to-day I would give everj'thing 




To see a friend's face, or to hear a voice 




That had the slightest tone of comfort in 


Scene III. — Jasox, alone. 


it! 


yason. Through the Gate Beautiful I 




see them come 




With branches and green boughs and 


ACT V. 


leaves of palm. 




The Mountains of Echatana. 


And pass into the inner courts. Alas ! 


I should be with them, should be one of 


Scene I. — Antiochus; Philip; At- 


them. 






tendants. 


But in an evil hour, an hour of weak- 




ness, 


Ant. Here let us rest awhile. Where 


That Cometh unto all, I fell away 


are we, Philip .' 


From the old faith, and did not clutch the 


What place is this .> 


new. 


Philip. Ecbatana, my Lord ; 


Only an outward semblance of belief ; 


And yonder mountain range is the 


For the new faith I cannot make mine 


Oronte.s. 


own, 


Ant. The Orontes is my river at An- 


Not being born to it. It hath no root 


tioch. 


Within me. I am neither Jew nor Clreek, 


Why did I leave it? Why have I been 


But stand between them both, a rene- 


tempted 


gade 


By coverings of gold and shields and 


To each in turn ; having no longer faith 


breastplates 



55° JUDAS MACCABMUS. 


To plunder Elymais, and be driven 


Scene II. — Antiochus; Philip; A 


From out its gates, as by a fiery blast 
Out of a furnace ? 


Messenger. 


Philip. These are fortune's changes. 
A)it. What a defeat it was ! The Per- 


Messenger. May the King live forever ! 
Ant. Who art thou, and whence com- 


sian horsemen 


est thou .'' 


Came like a mighty wind, the wind 

Khamaseen, 
And melted us away, and scattered us 


Messenger. My Lord, 
I am a messenger from Antioch, 
Sent here by Lysias. 


As if we were dead leaves, or desert sand. 
Philip. Be comforted, my Lord ; for 
thou hast lost 


Ant. A strange foreboding 
Of something evil overshadows me. 
I am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures ; 


But what thou hadst not. 


I know not Hebrew ; but my High-Priest 


Atit. I, who made the Jews 


Jason, 


Skip like the grasshoppers, am made my- 
self 


As I remember, told me of a Prophet 
Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea 


To skip among these stones. 


Like a man's hand, and soon the heaven 


Philip. Be not discouraged. 


was black 


Thy realm of Syria remains to thee ; 
That is not lost or marred. 


With clouds and rain. Here, Philiji, 
read ; I cannot ; 


Ant. O, where are now 


I see that cloud. It makes the letters 


The splendors of my court, my baths and 

banquets 'i 
Where are my players and my dancing 


dim 
Before mine eyes. 

Philip {reading). " To King Antio- 


women ? 


chus, 


Where are my sweet musicians with their 


The God, Epiphanes." 


pipes, 
That made me merry in the olden time .? 
I am a laughing-stock to man and brute. 


Ant. mockery ! 
Even Lysias laughs at me ! — Go on, go 
on ! 


The very camels, with their ugly faces. 
Mock me and laugh at me. 


Philip {reading). " We pray thee 
hasten thy return. The realm 


Philip. Alas ! my Lord, 
It is not so. If thou wouldst sleep awhile, 
All would be well. 


Is falling from thee. Since thou hast 

gone from us 
The victories of Judas Maccabaeus 


A)it. Sleep from mine eyes is gone. 
And my heart faileth me for very care. 
Dost thou remember, Philip, the old fable 


Form all our annals. First he overthrew 
Thy forces at Beth-horon, and passed on. 
And took Jerusalem, the Holy City. 


Told us when we were boys, in which the 
bear 


And then Emmaus fell ; and then Beth- 
sura ; 


Going for honey overturns the hive, 
And is stung blind by bees .? I am that 

beast, 
Stung by the Persian swarms of Elymais. 
Philip. When thou art come again to 

Antioch 
These thoughts will be as covered and 


Ephron and all the towns of Galaad, 
And Maccabseus marched to Carnion." 
A)it. Enough, enough ! Go call my 
chariot-men ; 
We will drive forward, forward, without 

ceasing. 
Until we come to Antioch. My captains, 


forgotten 
As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot- 


My Lysias, Gorgias, Seron, and Nicanor, 
Are babes in battle, and this dreadful 


wheels 


Jew 


In the Egyptian sands. 


Will rob me of my kingdom and my ' 


Ant. Ah ! when I come 


crown. 


Again to Antioch ! When will that be t 
Alas ! alas ! 


My elephants shall trample him to dust ; 
I will wipe out his nation, and will make 



JUDAS MACCAB^EUS. 



551 



Jerusalem a common burying-place, 
And every home within its walls a tomb ! 

( Throws up his hands, and sinks into the 
arms of attendants, tuho lay him upon a 
bank.) 

Philip. Antiochus ! Antiochus ! Alas, 

The King is ill ! What is it, O my Lord ? 

Ant. Nothing. A sudden and sharp 

spasm of pain. 
As if the lightning struck me, or the 

knife 
Of an assassin smote me to the heart. 
'T is passed, even as it came. Let us set 

forward. 
Philip. See that the chariots be in 

readiness ; 
We will depart forthwith. 

Ant. A moment more. 

I cannot stand. I am become at once 
Weak as an infant. Ye will have to lead 

me. 
Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name 
Thou wouldst be named, — it is alike to 

me, — 
If I knew how to pray, I would entreat 
To live a little longer. 

Philip. O my Lord, 

Thou shalt not die ; we will not let thee 

die ! 
Ant. How canst thou help it, Philip .' 

O the pain ! 
Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield 

against 
This unseen weapon. God of Israel, 
Since all the other gods abandon me. 
Help me. I will release the Holy City, 
Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy Tem- 
ple. 



Thy people, whom I judged to be un- 
worthy 

To be so much as buried, shall be equal 

Unto the citizens of Antioch. 

I will become a Jew, and will declare 

Through all the world that is inhabited 

The power of God ! 

Philip. He faints. It is like death. 

Bring here the royal litter. We will bear 
him 

Into the camp, while yet he lives. 

Ant. C) Philip, 

Into what tribulation am I come I 

Alas ! I now remember all the evil 

That I have done the Jews ; and for this 
cause 

These troubles are upon me, and behold 

I perish through great grief in a strange 
land. 
Philip. Antiochus ! my King ! 
Ant. Nay, King no longer. 

Take tJiou my royal robes, my signet- 
ring, 

]\Iy crown and sceptre, and deliver them 

Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator ; 

And unto the good Jews, my citizens, 

lu all my towns, say that their dving 
monarch 

Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and health. 

I who, puffed up with pride and arro- 
gance, 

Thought all the kingdoms of the earth 
mine own. 

If I would but outstretch my hand and 
take them. 

Meet face to face a greater potentate. 

King Death — Epiphanes — the Illus- 
trious ! 

\_Dies. 



A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS. 


THE FUGITIVE. 


" What right hast thou, O Khan, 




To me, who am mine own. 


TARTAR SONG FROM THE PROSE VERSION 


Who am slave to God alone, 


OF CHODZKO. 


And not to any man .'' 


I. 

" He is gone to the desert land ! 


" God will appoint the day 
When I again shall be 


I can see the shining mane 


By the blue, shallow sea. 


Of his horse on the distant plain, 
As he rides with his Kossak band ! 


Where the steel-bright sturgeons play. 




" God, who doth care for me, 


" Come back, rebellious one ! 


In the barren wilderness. 


Let thy proud heart relent ; 


On unknown hills, no less 


Come back to my tall, white tent, 
Come back, my only son ! 


Will my companion be. 

" When I wander lonely and lost 


" Thy hand in freedom shall 


In the wind ; when I watch at night 


Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks, 


Like a hungry wolf, and am white 


On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 


And covered with hoar-frost ; 


On the lakes of Karajal. 


" Yea, wheresoever I be. 


" I will give thee leave to stray 


In the yellow desert sands. 


And pasture thy hunting, steeds 


In mountains or unknown lands. 


In the long grass and the reeds 


Allah will care for me ! " 


Of the meadows of Karaday. 




" I will give thee my coat of mail. 


III. 


Of softest leather made. 


Then Sobra, the old, old man, — 


With choicest steel inlaid ; 


Three hundred and si.xty years 


Will not all this prevail ?" 


Had he lived in this land of tears, 


II. 


Bowed down and said, " O Khan ! 


" This hand no longer shall 


"If you bid me, I will speak. 


Cast my hawks, when morning breaks, 
On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 


There 's no sap in dry grass, 
No marrow in dry bones ! Alas, 


On the lakes of Karajal. 


The mind of old men is weak ! 


" I will no longer stray 

And pasture my hunting steeds 


" I am old, I am very old : 
I have seen the primeval man. 


In the long grass and the reeds 


I have seen the great Gengis Khan, 


Of the meadows of Karaday. 


Arrayed in his robes of gold. 


" Though thou give me thy coat of mail, 


" What I say to you is the truth ; 


Of softest leather made. 


And I say to you, O Khan, 


With choicest steel inlaid, 


Pursue not the star-white man. 


All this cannot prevail. 


Pursue not the beautiful youth. 



THE BOY AiVD THE BROOK. 553 


"Him the Almighty made, 


From the prison windows our maidens 


And brought him forth of the light, 


fair 


At the verge and end of the night, 


Talk of us still through the iron grates. 


When men on the mmmtain prayed. 






We cannot hear them ; for horse and man 


" He was born at the break of day, 


Lie buried deep in the dark abyss ! 


When abroad the angels walk ; 


Ah ! the black day hath come down on 


He hath listened to their talk, 


Kazan ! 


And he knoweth what they say. 


Ah ! was ever a grief like this } 


" Gifted with Allah's grace, 




Like the moon of Ramazan 




When it shines in the skies, Khan, 


THE BOY AND THE BROOK. 


Is the light of his beautiful face. 






ARMENIAN POPULAR SONG, FROM THE 


" When first on earth he trod, 


PROSE VERSION OF ALISHAN. 


The first words that he said 




Were these, as he stood and prayed, 


UoWN from yon distant mountain 


There is no God but God ! 


height 




The brooklet flows through the village 


" And he shall be king of men, 


street ; 


For Allah hath heard his prayer, 


A boy comes forth to wash his hands, 


And the Archangel in the air. 


Washing, yes washing, there he stands, 


Gabriel, hath said, Amen ! " 


In the water cool and sweet. 




Brook, from what mountain dost thou 




come, 


THE Sn';GE OF KAZAN. 


my brooklet cool and sweet ! 




I come from yon mountain high and 


TART -A R SO.Nc;, FROM THE PROSE VERSION 


cold, 


OK CHODZKO. 


Where lieth the new snow on the old, 




And melts in the summer heat. 


Bl.\ck are the moors before Kazan, 




And their stagnant waters smell of 


Brook, to what river dost thou go .' 


blood : 


my brooklet cool and sweet ! 


I said in my heart, with horse and man. 


I go to the river there below 


I will swim across this shallow flood. 


Where in bunches the violets grow, 




And sun and shadow meet. 


Under the feet of Argamack, 




Like new moons were the shoes he 


Brook, to what garden dost thou go .-* 


bare, 


my brooklet cool and sweet ! 


Silken trappings hung on his back, 


I go to the garden in the vale 


In a talisman on his neck, a prayer. 


Where all night long the nightingale 




I ler love-song doth repeat. 


My warriors, thought I, are following 




me ; 


Brook, to what fountain dost thou go "i 


But when I looked behind, alas ! 


my brooklet cool and sweet ! 


Not one of all the band could I see, 


I go to the fountain at whose brink 


All hatl sunk in the black morass ! 


The maid that loves thee comes to 




drink, 


Where are our shallow fords .' and where 


And whenever she looks therein, 


The power of Kazan with its fourfold 


I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin, 


gates "i 


And my joy is then complete. 



554 A HANDFUL OF 


TRANSLA TIONS. 


TO THE STORK. 


Whispered within thy heart, by tender- 




ness paternal. 


ARMENIAN POPULAR SONG, FROM THE 


Only augment its force ? 


PROSE VERSION OF ALISHAN. 






Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the 


Welcome, O Stork ! that dost wing 


tomb descending 


Thy flight from the far-away ! 


By death's frequented ways. 


Thou hast brought us the signs of 


Has it become to thee a labyrinth never 


Spring, 


ending, 


Thou hast made our sad hearts gay. 


Where thy lost reason strays ? 


Descend, O Stork ! descend 


I know the charms that made her youth 


Upon our roof to rest ; 


a benediction : 


In our ash-tree, O my friend, 


Nor should I be content. 


My darling, make thy nest. 


As a censorious friend, to solace thine 




aftliction 


To thee, Stork, I complain, 


By her disparagement. 


O Stork, to thee I impart 




The thousand sorrows, the pain 


But she was of the world, which fairest 


And aching of my heart. 


things exposes 




To fates the most forlorn ; 


When thou away didst go, 


A rose, she too hath lived as long as live 


Away from this tree of ours, 


the roses, 


The withering winds did blow, 


The space of one brief morn. 


And dried up all the flowers. 






Death has his rigorous laws, unparal- 


Dark grew the brilliant sky. 


leled, unfeeling ; 


Cloudy and dark and drear ; 


All prayers to him are vain ; 


They were breaking the snow on high. 


Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our 


And winter was drawing near. 


appealing, 




He leaves us to complain. 


From Varaca's rocky wall, 




From the rock of Varaca unrolled. 


The poor man in his hut, with only thatch 


The snow came and covered all, 


for cover. 


And the green meadow was cold. 


Unto these laws must bend ; 




The sentinel that guards the barriers of 


O Stork, our garden with snow 


the Louvre 


Was hidden away and lost. 


Cannot our kings defend. 


And the rose-trees that in it grow 




Were withered by snow and frost. 


To murmur against death, in jietulant de- 




fiance, 




Is never for the best ; 


CONSOLATION. 


To will what God doth will, that is the 




only science 


TO M. DUPERRIER, GENTLEMAN OF ALX 


That gives us any rest. 


IN PROVENCE, ON THE DEATH OF HIS 




DAUGHTER. 






TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU. 


FROM MALHERBE. 






FROM MALHERBE. 


Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be 




eternal t 


Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, 


And shall the sad discourse 


Richelieu ! until the hour of death, 



TO ITALY. 555 


Whatever road man chooses, Fate 


"Ah no ! into the fields of space. 


Still holds hum subject to her breath. 


Away shalt thou escape with me ; 


Spun of all silks, our days and nights 


And Providence will grant thee grace 


Have sorrows woven with delights ; 


Of all the days that were to be. 


And of this intermingled shade 




Our various destiny appears. 


" Let no one in thy dwelling cower. 


Even as one sees the course of years 


In sombre vestments draped and 


Of summers and of winters made. 


veiled ; 




But let them welcome thy last hour. 


Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours 


As thy first moments once they hailed. 


Let us enjoy the halcyon wave ; 




Sometimes impending peril lowers 


" Without a cloud be there each brow ; 


Beyond the seaman's skill to save. 


There let the grave no shadow cast ; 


The Wisdom, infinitely wise. 


When one is ]>ure as thou art now, 


That gives to human destinies 


The fairest day is still the last." 


Their foreordained necessity, 




Has made no law more fi.\ed below. 


And waving wide his wings of white, 


Than the alternate ebb and flow 


The angel, at these words, had sped 


Of Fortune and Adversity. 


Towards the eternal realms of light! — 




Poor mother ! see, thy son is dead ! 


THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 




FROM JE.\N REBOUL, THE BAKER OF 


TO ITALY. 


NISMES. 






FROM FILIC.VJA. 


An angel with a radiant face. 




Above a cradle bent to look. 


Italy ! Italy ! thou who 'rt doomed to 


Seemed his own image there to trace. 


wear 


As in the waters of a brook. 


The fatal gift of beauty, and possess 




The dower funcst of infinite wretched- 


" Dear child ! who me resemblest so," 


ness 


It whispered, "come, O come with me ! 


Written upon thy forehead by despair ; 


Happy together let us go. 


Ah ! would that thou wert stronger, or 


The earth unworthy is of thee ! 


less fair. 




That they might fear thee more, or 


" Here none to perfect bliss attain ; 


love thee less, 


The soul in pleasure suffering lies ; 


Who in the splendor of thy loveli- 


Joy hath an undertone of pain. 


ness 


And even the happiest hours their 


Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat 


sighs. 


dare ! 




Then from the Alps I should not see de- 


" Fear doth at every portal knock ; 


scending 


Never a day serene and pure 


Such torrents of armed men, nor Gajlic 


From the o'ershadovving tempest's shock 


horde 


Hath made the morrow's dawn secure. 


Drinking the wave of Po, distaincd 




with gore, 


" What, then, shall sorrows and shall 


Nor should I see thee girded with a sword 


fears 


Not thine, and with the stranger's arm 


Come to disturb so pure a brow .' 


contending, 


And with the bitterness of tears 


Victor or vanquished, slave forever- 


These eyes of azure troubled grow ? 


more. 



556 



A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS. 



WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONGS. 


Deep under me watched I the waves in 




their flight. 


FROM GOETHE. 


As they glided so light 




In the night, in the night, 


I. 


Yet backward not one was returning. 


Thou that from the heavens art, 




Every pain and sorrow stillest, 


O' erhead were revolving, so countless 


And the doubly wretched heart 


and bright, 


Doubly with refreshment fillest, 


The stars in melodious existence ; 


I am weary with contending ! 


And with them the moon, more serenely 


Why this rapture and unrest ? 


bedight ; 


Peace descending 


They sparkled so light 


Come, ah, come into my breast ! 


In the night, in the night, 




Through the magical, measureless dis- 


H. 


tance. 


O'er all the hill-tops 




Is quiet now, 


And upward I gazed in the night, in the 


In all the tree-tops 


night, 


Hearest thou 


And again on the waves in their fleet- 


Hardly a breath ; 


ing 5 


The birds are asleep in the trees : 


Ah woe ! thou hast wasted thy days in 


Wait ; soon like these 


delight, 


Thou too shall rest. 


Now silence thou light. 




In the night, in the night. 




The remorse in thy heart that is beat- 
ing. 


REMORSE. 


FROM AUGUST VON PLATEN. 




How I Started up in the night, in the 


SANTA TERESA'S BOOK-MARK. 


night. 




Drawn on without rest or reprieval ! 


FROM THE SPANISH OF SANTA TERESA. 


The streets, with their watchmen, were 




lost to my sight. 


Let nothing disturb thee, 


As I wandered so light 


Nothing affright thee ; 


In the night, in the night. 


All things are passing ; 


Through the gate with the arch medieval. 


God never changeth ; 




Patient endurance 


The mill-brook rushed from the rocky 


Attaineth to all things ; 


height, 


Who God possesseth 


I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearn- 


In nothing is wanting ; 


ing ; 


Alone God sufticeth. 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



THE WORKSHOP OF HEPH^S- 
TUS. 

HEPH.tSTUS, standing before the statue of 
PANDORA. 

Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera's 

throne, 
Nor forged of iron like the thunderbolts 
Of Zeus omnipotent, or other works 
Wrought by my hands at Lemnos or 

Olympus, 
But moulded in soft clay, that unresisting 
Yields itself to the touch, this lovely form 
Before me stands, perfect in every part. 
Not Aphrodite's self appeared more fair. 
When first upwafted by caressing winds 
She came to high Olympus, and the gods 
Paid homage to her beauty. Thus her 

hair 
Was cinctured ; thus her floating dra- 
pery 
Was like a cloud about her, and her face 
Was radiant with the sunshine and the sea. 

THE VOICE OK ZEUS. 

Is thy work done, Hephaestus .^ 

HEPH.-ESTUS. 

It is finished ! 

THE VOICE. 

Not finished till I breath the breath of 

life 
Into her nostrils, and she moves and 

speaks. 

HEPH.«STU.S. 

Will she become immortal like ourselves ? 

THE VOICE. 

The form that thou hast fashioned out of 

clay 
Is of the earth and mortal ; but the spirit, 



The life, the CKJiabtion of my breath. 
Is of diviner essence and immortal. 
The gods shall shower on her their ben- 
efactions. 
She shall possess all gifts : the gift of 

song. 
The gift of eloquence, the gift of beauty, 
The fascination and the nameless charm 
That shall lead all men captive. 

HEPH/ESTUS. 

Wherefore ? wherefore .' 

A 'wind shakes the house. 

I hear the rushing of a mighty wind 
Through all the halls and chambers of 

my house ! 
Her parted lips inhale it, and her bosom 
Heaves with the inspiration. As a reed 
Beside a river in the rijjpling current 
Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts her 

head. 
She gazes round about as if amazed ; 
She is alive ; she breathes, but yet she 

speaks not ! 

PANDORA descends from the pedestal. 
CHORUS OF THK GRACE.S. 



In the workshop of Hephrestus 

What is this I see .' 
Have the Gods to four increased us 

Who were only three .'' 
Beautiful in form and feature, 

Lovely as the day, 
Can there be so fair a creature 

Formed of common clav .'' 



O sweet, pale face ! ( ) lovely eyes of 
azure. 
Clear as the waters of a brook tiiat run 
Limpid and laughing in the summer 

sun ! 



558 THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA. 


O golden hair that Hke a miser's treas- 


Commissioned by high-thundering Zeus, 


ure 


to lead 


In its abundance overflows the measure ! 


A maiden to Prometheus, in his tower. 


O graceful form, that cloudlike floatest 


And by my cunning arguments persuade 


on 


him 


With the soft, undulating gait of one 


To marry lier. What mischief lies con- 


Who movethas if motion were a pleas- 


cealed 


ure ! 


In this design I know not ; but I know 


By what name shall I call thee ? Nymph 


Who thinks of marrying hath already 


or Muse, 


taken 


Callirrhoe or Urania ? Some sweet 


One step upon the road to penitence. 


name 


Such embassies delight me. Forth I 


Whose every syllable is a caress 


launch 


Would best befit thee ; but I cannot 


On the sustaining air, nor fear to fall 


choose, 


Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like him 


Nor do I care to choose ; for still the 


Who drove amiss Hyperion's fiery steeds. 


same, 


I sink, I fly ! The yielding element 


Nameless or named, will be thy love- 


Folds itself round about me like an arm. 


liness. 


And holds me as a mother holds her 




child. 


EUPHROSYNE. 




Dowered with all celestial gifts. 


IIL 


Skilled in every art 




That ennobles and uplifts 


TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON 


And delights the heart. 


MOUNT CAUCASUS. 


Fair on earth shall be thy fame 




PROMETHEUS. 


As thy face is fair. 




And Pandora be the name 


I HEAR the trumpet of Alectryon 


Thou henceforth shalt bear. 


Proclaim the dawn. The stars begin to 




fade. 




And all the heavens are full of prophecies 


II. 


And evil auguries. Blood-red last night 




I saw great Kronos rise ; the crescent 


OLYMPUS. 


moon 




Sank through the mist, as if it were the 


HERMES, putting on his sandals. 


scythe 


Much must he toil who serves the Im- 


His parricidal hand had flung far down 


mortal Gods, 


The western steeps. O ye Immortal 


And I, who am their herald, most of all. 


Gods, 


No rest have I, no respite. I no sooner 


What evil are ye plotting and contriv- 


Unclasp the winged sandals from my 


ing ? 


feet, 


HERMES and PANDORA at the thresliold. 


Than I again must clasp them, and de- 






PANDORA. 


part 




Upon some foolish errand. But to-day 


I cannot cross the threshold. An un- 


The errand is not foolish. Never yet 


seen 


With greater joy did I obey the summons 


And icy hand repels me. These blank 


That sends me earthward. I will fly so 


walls 


swiftly 


Oppress me with their weight ! 


That my caduceus in the whistling air 




Shall make a sound like the Pandean 


PROMETHEUS. 


pipes. 


Powerful ye are. 


Cheating the shepherds ; for to-day I go, 


But not omnipotent. Ye cannot fight 



THE MASQUE 


OE PANDORA. 559 


Against Necessity. The Fates control 


PROMETHEUS. 


you, 


I mistrust 


As they do us, and so far we are equals ! 


The Gods and all their gifts. If they 




have sent her 


PANDORA. 


It is for no good purpose. 


Motionless, passionless, companionless, 




He sits there muttering in his beard. 


HERMES. 


His voice 


\\'hat disaster 


Is like a river flowing underground ! 


Could she bring on thy house, who is a 




woman .' 


HERMES. 




Prometheus, hail ! 


PROMETHEUS. 




The Gods are not my friends, nor am I 


PROMETHEUS. 


theirs. 


Who calls me .' 


Whatever comes from them, though in a 




shape 


HERMES. 


As beautiful as this, is evil only. 


It is I. 


Who art thou .'' 


Dost thou not know me .'' 






PANDORA. 


PRO.METHEUS. 


One who, though to thee unknown, 


By thy winged cap 


Yet knoweth thee. 


And winged heels I know thee. Thou 




art Hermes, 


PROMETHEUS. 


Captain of thieves ! Hast thou again been 


How shouldst thou know me, woman ? 


stealing 




The heifers of Admetus in the sweet 


PANDORA. 


Meadows of asphodel .' or Hera's gir- 


Who knoweth not Prometheus the hu- 


dle ? 


mane .' 


Or the earth-shaking trident of Poseidon .' 






PROMETHEUS. 


HERMES. 


Prometheus the unfortunate ; to whom 


And thou, Prometheus ; say, hast thou 


Both Gods and men have shown them- 


again 


selves ungrateful. 


Been stealing fire from Helios' chariot- 


When every spark was quenched on every 


wheels 


hearth 


To light thy furnaces .'' 


Throughout the earth, I brought to man 




the fire 


PROMETHEUS. 


And all its ministrations. My reward 


Why comest thou hither 


Hath been the rock and vulture. 


So early in the dawn ? 






HER>n':s. 


HERMES. 


But the Gods 


The Immortal Gods 


At last relent and pardon. 


Know naught of late or early. Zeus him- 




self 


PROMETHEUS. 


The omnipotent hath sent me. 


They relent not ; 




They pardon not ; they are implacable, 


PROMETHEUS. 


Revengeful, unforgiving ! 


For what purpose .■' 






HEKMES. 


HERMES. 


As a pledge 


To bring this maiden to thee. 


Of reconciliation they liave sent to thee 



560 THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA. 


This divine being, to be thy companion, 


Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken, 


And bring into thy melancholy house 


In the mists of his confusions 


The sunshine and the fragrance of her 


To the reefs of doom he drifts ! 


youth. 






LACHESIS. 


PROMETHEUS. 

I need them not. I have within myself 


Sorely tried and sorely tempted. 
From no agonies exempted. 


All that my heart desires ; the ideal 


In the penance of his trial, 


, beauty 


And the discipline of pain ; 


Which the creative faculty of mind 


Often by illusions cheated, 


Fashions and follows in a thousand 


Often baffled and defeated 


shapes 


In the tasks to be completed, 


More lovely than the real. My own 


He, by toil and self-denial, 


thoughts 


To the highest shall attain. 


Are my comj^anions ; my designs and 
labors 


ATROPOS. 


And aspirations are my only friends. 


Tempt no more the noble schemer ; 




Bear unto some idle dreamer 


HERMES. 


This new toy and fascination, 


Decide not rashly. The decision made 


This new dalliance and delight ! 


Can never be recalled. The Gods im- 


To the garden where reposes 


plore not, 


Epimetheus crowned with roses. 


Plead not, solicit not ; they only offer 


To the door that never closes 


Choice and occasion, which once being 


Upon pleasure and temptation, 


passed 


Bring this vision of the night ! 


Return no more. Dost thou accept the 
gift? 

PROMETHEUS. 




IV. 


No gift of theirs, in whatsoever shape 


THE AIR. 


It comes to me, with whatsoever charm 
To fascinate my sense, will I receive. 


HERMES, returning to Olympus. 


Leave me. 


As lonely as the tower that he inhabits. 




As firm and cold as are the crags about 


PANDORA. 


him. 


Let us go hence. I will not stay. 


Prometheus stands. The thunderbolts of 




Zeus 


HERMES. 


Alone can move him ; but the tender 


We leave thee to thy vacant dreams, and 


heart 


all 


Of Epimetheus, burning at white heat. 


The silence and the solitude of thought. 


Hammers and flames like all his brother's 


The endless bitterness of unbelief, 


forges ! 


The loneliness of existence without love. 


Now as an arrow from Hyperion's bow, 




My errand done, I fly, I float, I soar 


CHORUS OF THE FATES. 


Into the air, returning to Olympus. 




joy of motion ! O delight to cleave 


CLOrHO. 


The infinite realms of space, the liquid 


How the Titan, the defiant, 


ether. 


The self-centred, self-reliant, 


Through the warm sunshine and the cool- 


Wrapped in visions and illusions. 


ing cloud, 


Robs himself of life's best gifts ! 


Myself as light as sunbeam or as cloud ! 


Till by all the storm-winds shaken, 


With one touch of my swift and winged 


By the blast of fate o'ertaken, 


feet, 



THE MASQUE OE PANDORA. 



561 



I spurn the solid earth, and leave it rock- 
ing 

As rocks the bough from which a bird 
takes wing. 



V. 



THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 

EriMETHEUS. 

Beautiful apparition ! go not hence ! 
Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy voice 
Is a celestial melody, and thy form 
Self-poised as if it floated on the air ! 

PANDORA. 

No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly birth, 
But a mere woman fashioned out of clay 
And mortal as the rest. 

EI'IMETHEUS. 

Thy face is fair ; 

There is a wonder in thine azure eyes 

That fascinates me. Thy whole pres- 
ence seems 

A soft desire, a breathing thought of love. 

Say, would thy star like Merope's grow 
dim 

If thou shouldst wed beneath thee .' 



Ask me not ; 
I cannot answer thee. I only know 
The Gods have sent me hither. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

I believe, 

And thus believing am most fortunate. 

It was not Hermes led thee here, but 
Eros, 

And swifter than his arrows were thine 
eyes 

In wounding me. There was no mo- 
ment's space 

Between my seeing thee and loving thee. 

O, what a tell-tale face thou hast ! Again 

I see the wonder in thy tender eyes. 

PANDORA. 

They do but answer to the love in thine. 
Vet secretly I wonder thou shouldst love 

me. 
Thou knowest me not. 

36 



EPIMETHEUS. 

Perhaps I know thee better 
Than had I known thee longer. Vet it 

seems 
That I have always known thee, and but 

now 
Have found thee. Ah, I have been 

waiting long. 

PANDORA. 

How beautiful is this house ! The at- 
mosphere 

Breathes rest and comfort, and the many 
chambers 

Seem full of welcomes. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

They not only seem, 
But truly are. This dwelling and its 

master 
Belong to thee. 



Here let me stay forever ! 
There is a spell upon me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Thou thyself 
Art the enchantress, and I feel thy power 
Envelop me, and wrap my soul and sense 
In an Elysian dream. 



O, let me stay. 

How beautiful are all things round about 
me, 

Multiplied by the mirrors on the walls ! 

What treasures hast thou here ! Von 
oaken chest, 

Carven with figures and embossed witii 
gold, 

Is wonderful to look upon ! What 
choice 

And precious things dost thou keep hid- 
den in it ? 

EIMMKTHEITS. 

I know not. 'T is a mystery. 

PANDORA. 

Hast thou never 
Lifted the lid t 



5^2 THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


With useless endeavor. 


The oracle forbids. 


Forever, forever. 


Safely concealed there from all mortal 


Is Sisyphus rolling 


eyes 
Forever sleeps the secret of the Gods. 


His stone up the mountain ! 


Immersed in the fountain. 


Seek not to know what they have hidden 


Tantalus tastes not 


from thee, 


The water that wastes not ! 


Till they themselves reveal it. 


Through ages increasing 




The pangs that afflict him. 


PANDORA. 


With motion unceasing 


As thou wilt. 


The wheel of Ixion 


Shall torture its victim ! 


EPIMETHEUS. 




Let us go forth from this mysterious 




place. 


VI. 


The garden walks are pleasant at this 




hour; 


IN THE GARDEN. 


The nightingales among the sheltering 




boughs 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Of populous and many-nested trees 


Yon snow-white cloud that sails sub- 


Shall teach me how to woo thee, and 


lime in ether 


shall tell me 


Is but the sovereign Zeus, who like a 


By what resistless charms or incanta- 


swan 


tions 


Flies to fair-ankled Leda ! 


They won their mates. 






PANDORA. 


PANDORA. 


Or perchance 


Thou dost not need a teacher. 


Ixion's cloud, the shadowy shape of 


They go out. 


Hera, 




That bore the Centaurs. 


CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 






EPIMETHEUS. 


What the Immortals 




Confide to thy keeping, 


The divine and human. 


Tell unto no man ; 




Waking or sleeping, 


CHORUS OF BIRDS. 


Closed be thy portals 


Gently swaying to and fro. 


To friend as to foeman. 


Rocked by all the winds that blow. 




Bright with sunshine from above 


Silence conceals it ; 


Dark with shadow from below. 


The word that is spoken 


Beak to beak and breast to breast 


Betrays and reveals it ; 


In the cradle of their nest 


By breath or by token 


Lie the fledglings of our love. 


The charm may be broken. 






ECHO. 


With shafts of their splendors 


Love ! love ! 


The Gods unforgiving 




Pursue the offenders, 


EPIMETHEUS. 


The dead and the living ! 


Hark ! listen ! Hear how sweetly over- 


Fortune forsakes them. 


head 


Nor earth shall abide them, 


The feathered flute-players pipe their 


Nor Tartarus hide them ; 


songs of love. 


Swift wrath overtakes them ! 


And echo answers, love and only love. 



THE MASQUE OE PANDORA. 



56: 



CHORUS OF BIRDS. 

Every flutter of the wing, 
Every note of song we sing, 
Every murmur, every tone. 
Is of love and love alone. 

ECHO. 

Love alone ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Who would not love, if loving she might 

be 
Changed like Callisto to a star in heaven ? 

PANDORA. 

Ah, who would love, if loving she might 

be 
Like Semele consumed and burnt to 

ashes ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Whence knowest thou these stories ? 

PANDORA. 

Hermes taught mc ; 
He told me all the history of the Gods. 

CHORUS OF REEDS. 

Evermore a sound shall be 
In the reeds of Arcady, 
Evermore a low lament 
Of unrest and discontent. 
As the story is retold 
Of the nymph so coy and cold. 
Who with frightened feet outran 
The pursuing steps of Pan. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

The pipe of Pan out of these reeds is 
made. 

And when he plays upon it to the shep- 
herds 

They i^ity him, so mournful is the 
sound. 

Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx was. 

PANDORA. 

Nor thou as Pan be rude and manner- 
less. 

PROMETHEUS, 7vit/lOUt. 

Ho ! Epimetheus ! 



EPIMETHEUS. 



' T is my brother's voice ; 
A sound unwelcome and inopportune 
As was the braying of Silenus' ass, 
Once heard in Cybele's garden. 



Let me go. 
I would not be found here. I would not 
see him. 

She escapes a7>iotig the trees. 

CHORUS OK DRYADES. 

Haste and hide thee, 

Ere too late, 

In these thickets intricate ; 

Lest Prometheus 

See and chide thee. 

Lest some hurt 

Or harm betide thee. 

Haste and hide thee ! 

PROMETHEUS, entering. 

Who was it fled from here .' I saw a 

Shape 
Flitting among the trees. 

EPI.METHEUS. 

It was Pandora. 

PROMETHEUS. 

O Epimetheus ! Is it then in vain 
That I have warned thee ? Let me now 

implore. 
Thou harborest in thy house a dangerous 

guest. 

EPI.METHEUS. 

Whom the Gods love they honor with 
such guests. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Whom the Gods would destroy they first 
make mad. 

EPIMETHEUS. 
Shall I refuse the gifts they send to mc ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Reject all gifts that come from higher 
powers. 



564 THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


PROMETHEUS. 


Such gifts as this are not to be rejected. 


Assert thyself ; rise up to thy full height ; 




Shake from thy soul these dreams effemi- 


PROMETHEUS. 


nate, 


Make not thyself the slave of any woman. 


These passions born of indolence and 




ease. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Resolve, and thou art free. But breathe 


Make not thyself the judge of any man. 


the air 




Of mountains, and their unapproachable 


PROMETHEUS. 


summits 


I judge thee not ; for thou art more than 


Will lift thee to the level of themselves. 


man ; 
Thou art descended from Titanic race, 


EPIMETHEUS. 


And hast a Titan's strength, and facul- 


The roar of forests and of waterfalls, 


ties 


The rushing of a mighty wind, with loud 


That make thee god-like ; and thou sittest 


And undistinguishable voices calling, 


here 


Are in my ear ! 


Like Heracles spinning Omphale's flax, 




And beaten with her sandals. 


PROMETHEUS. 




0, listen and obey. 


EPIMETHEUS. 




my brother ! 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Thou drivest me to madness with thy 


Thou leadest me as a child. I follow 


taunts. 


thee. 




They go out. 


PROMETHEUS. 




And me thou drivest to madness with 
thy follies. 


CHORUS OF OREADES. 


Come with me to my tower on Caucasus ; 


Centuries old are the mountains ; 


See there my forges in the roaring cav- 


Their foreheads wrinkled and rifted 


erns, 


Helios crowns by day, 


Beneficent to man, and taste the joy 


Pallid Selene by night ; 


That springs from labor. Read with me 


From their bosoms uptossed 


the stars. 


The snows are driven and drifted. 


And learn the virtues that lie hidden in 


Like Tithonus' beard 


plants, 


Streaming dishevelled and white. 


And all things that are useful. 






Thunder and tempest of wind 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Their trumpets blow in the vastness ; 


my brother ! 


Phantoms of mist and rain. 


I am not as thou art. Thou dost in- 


Cloud and the shadow of cloud, 


herit 


Pass and repass by the gates 


Our father's strength, and I our mother's 


Of their inaccessible fastness ; , 


weakness : 


Ever unmoved they stand, 


The softness of the Oceanides, 


Solemn, eternal, and proud. 


The yielding nature that cannot resist. 




PROMETHEUS. 


VOICES OF THE WATERS. 


Because thou wilt not. 


Flooded by rain and snow 




In their inexhaustible sources, 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Swollen by affluent streams 


Nay ; because I cannot. 


Hurrying onward and hurled 



THE MASQUE 


OE PANDORA. 565 


Headlong over the crags, 


CHORUS OF OREADES. 


The impetuous water-courses 




Rush and roar and plunge 


These are the Voices Three 


Down to the nethermost world. 


Of winds and forests and fountains, 




Voices of earth and of air. 


Say, have the solid rocks 


Murmur and rushing of streams, 


Into streams of silver been melted, 


^Laking together one sound. 


Flowing over the plains, 


The mysterious voice of the mountains, 


Spreading to lakes in the field ? 


Waking the sluggard that sleeps. 


Or have the mountains, the giants. 


Waking the dreamer of dreams. 


The ice-helmed, the forest-belted, 




Scattered their arms abroad ; 


These are the Voices Three, 


Flung in the meadows their shields ? 


That speak of endless endeavor, 




Speak of endurance and strength. 


VOICES OF THE WINDS. 


Triumph and fulness of fame, 
Sounding about the world, * 


High on their turreted cliffs 


An inspiration forever. 


That bolts of thunder have shattered. 


Stirring the hearts of men. 


Storm-winds muster and blow 


Shaping their end and their aim. 


Trumpets of terrible breath ; 




Then from the gateways rush. 




And before them routed and scattered 


VII. 


Sullen the cloud-rack flies. 




Pale with the pallor of death. 


THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS. 


Onward the hurricane rides, 


PANDOR.\. 


And flee for shelter the shepherds ; 


Left to myself I wander as I will. 


White are the frightened leaves. 


And as my fancy leads me, through this 


Harvests with terror are white ; 


house, 


Panic seizes the herds, 


Nor could I ask a dwelling more com- 


And even the lions and leopards, 


plete 


Prowling no longer for prey. 


Were I indeed the Goddess that he 


Crouch in their caverns with fright. 


deems me. 




No mansion of Olymjnis, framed to be 


VOICES OF THE FOREST. 


The habitation of the Immortal Gods, 
Can be more beautiful. And this is mine 


Guarding the mountains around 


And more than this, the love wherewith 


Majestic the forests are standing. 


he crowns me. 


Brigiit are their crested helms. 


As if impelled by powers invisible 


Dark is their armor of leaves ; 


And irresistible, my steps return 


Filled with the breath of freedom 


Unto this spacious hall. All corridors 


Each bosom subsiding, expanding. 


And passages lead hither, and all doors 


Now like the ocean sinks. 


But open into it. Yon mysterious chest 


Now like the ocean upheaves. 


Attracts and fascinates me. Would I 


Planted firm on the rock, 


knew 
What there lies hidden ! Put the oracle 


With foreheads stern and defiant, 


Forbids. Ah me ! The secret then is 


Loud they shout to the winds, 


safe. 


Loud to the tempest they call ; 


So would it be if it were in my keejiing. 


Naught but Olympian thunders. 


A crowd of shadowy faces from the mir- 


That blasted Titan and Giant, 


rors 


Them can ujjroot and o'erthrow, 


That line these walls are watching me. 


Shaking the earth with their fall. 


I dare not 



566 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



Lift up the lid. A hundred times the 

act 
Would be repeated, and the secret seen 
By twice a hundred incorporeal eyes. 

She ivalks to the other side of the hall. 

My feet are weary, wandering to and fro, 
My eyes with seeing and my heart with 

waiting. 
I will lie here and rest till he returns, 
Who is my dawn, my day, my Helios. 

Throws herself upon a couch, and falls 
asleep. 

ZEPHYRUS. 
Come from thy caverns dark and deep, 
O son of Erebus and Night ; 
All sense of hearing and of sight 
Enfold in the serene delight 
And quietude of sleep ! 

Set all thy silent sentinels 
To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, 
And keep the evil dreams of fate 
And falsehood and infernal hate 
Imprisoned in their cells. 

But open wide the Gate of Horn, 
Whence, beautiful as planets, rise 
The dreams of truth, with starry eyes. 
And all the wondrous prophecies 
And visions of the mom. 



CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE 
IVORY GATE. 

Ye sentinels of sleep. 

It is in vain ye keep 
Your drowsy watch before the Ivory 
Gate ; 

Though closed the portal seems. 

The airy feet of dreams 
Ye cannot thus in walls incarcerate. 

We phantoms are and dreams 

Born by Tartarean streams, 
As ministers of the infernal powers ; 

O son of Erebus 

And Night, behold ! we thus 
Elude your watchful warders on the 
towers ! 



From gloomy Tartarus 

The Fates have summoned us 
To whisper in her ear, who lies asleep, 

A tale to fan the fire 

Of her insane desire 
To know a secret that the Gods would 
keep. 

This passion, in their ire, 
The Gods themselves inspire, 

To vex mankind with evils manifold. 
So that disease and pain 
O'er the whole earth may reign. 

And nevermore return the Age of Gold. 

PANDORA, -iUaking. 

A voice said in my sleep : " Do not de- 
lay : 
Do not delay ; the golden moments fly ! 
The oracle hath forbidden ; yet not thee 
Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus only ! " 
I am alone. These faces in the mirrors 
Are but the shadows and phantoms of 

myself ; 
They cannot help nor hinder. No one 

sees me, 
Save the all-seeing Gods, who, knowing 

good 
And knowing evil, have created me 
Such as I am, and filled me with desire 
Of knowing good and evil like them- 
selves. 

She approaches the chest. 

I hesitate no longer. Weal or woe. 
Or life or death, the moment shall de- 
cide. 

Slie lifts the lid. A dense mist rises frotn 
the chest, and fills the room. Pandora 
falls senseless on the floor. Storm with- 
out. 



CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE GATE 
OF HORN. 

Yes, the moment shall decide ! 
It already hath decided ; 
And the secret once confided 
To the keeping of the Titan 
Now is flying far and wide. 
Whispered, told on every side. 
To disquiet and to frighten. 



THE MASQUE 


OF PAXDOKA. 567 


Fever of the heart and brain, 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Sorrow, pestilence, and pain, 


What hast thou done ? 


Moans of anguish, maniac laughter, 




All the evils that hereafter 


PANDORA. 


Shall afflict and vex mankind. 






I dare not speak of it. 


All into the air have risen 


From the chambers of their prison ; 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Only Hope remains behind. 


Thy pallor and thy silence terrify me ! 




PANDORA. 


viir. 


I have brought wrath and ruin on thy 


IN THE GARDEN. 


house ! 




My heart hath braved the oracle that 


EPIMETIIEUS. 


guarded 




The fatal secret from us, and my hand 


The storm is past, but it hath left be- 


Lifted the lid of the mysterious chest ! 


hind it 




Ruin and desolation. All the walks 


EI'IMETHEUS. 


Are strewn with shattered boughs ; the 


Then all is lost ! I am indeed undone. 


birds are silent ; 




The flowers, downtrodden by the wind, 


PANDORA. 


lie dead ; 


I pray for punishment, and not for par- 


The swollen rivulet sobs with secret 


don. 


pain ; 




The melancholy reeds whisper together 


EPIMETHEUS. 


As if some dreadful deed had been com- 


Mine is the fault, not thine. On me shall 


mitted 


fall 


They dare not name, and all the air is 


The vengeance of the Gods, for I be- 


heavy 


trayed 


With an unspoken sorrow ! Premoni- 


Their secret when, in evil hour, I said 


tions, 


It was a secret ; when, in evil hour, 


Foreshadowings of some terrible disas- 


I left thee here alone to this temptation. 


ter 


Why did I leave thee ? 


Oppress my heart. Ye Gods, avert the 




omen ! 


PANDORA. 


PANDORA, conii)ig from the house. 


Why didst thou return ? 




Eternal absence would have been to me 


O Ei)imctheus, I no longer dare 


The greatest punishment. To be left 


To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear thy 


alone 


voice, 


And face to face with my own crime, had 


Being no longer worthy of thy love. 


been 




Just retribution. Upon me, ye Gods, 
Let all your vengeance fall ! 


EPIMETHEUS. 


What hast thou done } 






EPIMETHEUS. 


PANDORA. 


On thee and me. 


Forgive me not, but kill me. 


I do not love thee less for what is done. 




And cannot be undone. Thy very weak- 


EPIMETHEUS. 


ness 


What hast thou done ? 


Hath brought thee nearer to me, and 




henceforth 


PANDORA. 


My love will have a sense of i)ity in it, 


I pray for death, not pardon. 


Making it less a worshi]i than before. 



568 



THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. 



Pity me not ; pity is degradation. 
Love me and kill me. 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful Pandora ! 
Thou art a Goddess still ! 

PANDORA. 

I am a woman ; 
And the insurgent demon in my nature, 
That made me brave the oracle, revolts 
At pity and compassion. Let me die ; 
What else remains for me ? 

EPIMETHEUS. 

Youth, hope, and love : 
To build a new life on a ruined life, 
To make the future fairer than the past, 
And make the past appear a troubled 

dream. 
Even now in passing through the garden 

walks 
Upon the ground I saw a fallen nest 
Ruined and full of rain ; and over me 
Beheld the uncomplaining birds already 
Busy in building a new habitation. 

PANDORA. 

Auspicious omen ! 

EPIMETHEUS. 

May the Eumenides 
Put out their torches and behold us not. 



And fling away their whips of scorpions 
And touch us not. 



Me let them punish. 
Only through punishment of our evil 

deeds, 
Only through suffering, are we reconciled 
To the immortal Gods and to ourselves. 

CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 

Never shall souls like these 
Escape the Eumenides, 
The daughters dark of Acheron and 
Night ! 
Unquenched our torches glare, 
Our scourges in the air 
Send forth prophetic sounds before they 
smite. 

Never by lapse of time 

The soul defaced by crime 
Into its former self returns again ; 

For every guilty deed 

Holds in itself the seed 
Of retribution and undying pain. 

Never shall be the loss 

Restored, till Helios 
Hath purified them with his heavenly 
fires ; 

Then what was lost is won. 

And the new life begun, 
Kindled with nobler passions and desires. 




THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



I. 

Thk lights are out, and gone arc all the guests 
That thronging came with merriment and jests 

To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane 
In the new house, — into the night are gone ; 
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on. 
And I alone remain. 



O fortunate, O happy day. 
When a new household finds its place 
Among the myriad homes of earth. 
Like a new star just sprung to birth, 
And rolled on its harmonious wav 



Into the boundless realms of space ! 
So said the guests in speech and song, 
As in the chimney, burning bright. 
We hung the iron crane to-night, 
.\ntl merrv was the feast and long. 



570 



THE HAXGIXG OF THE CRANE. 




And now I sit and muse on what may be, 
And in my vision see, or seem to see. 

Through floating vapors interfused with light. 
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade, 
As shadows passing into deeper shade 
vSink and elude the sight. 



For two alone, there in the hall, 

Is spread the table round and small ; 

Upon the polished silver shine 

The evening lamps, but, more divine, 

The light of love shines over all ; 

Of love, that says not mine and thine, 

But ours, for ours is thine and mine. 



They want no guests, to come between 
Their tender glances like a screen, 
And tell them tales of land and sea, 
And whatsoever may betide 
The great, forgotten world outside ; 
They want no guests ; they needs must be 
Each other's own best company. 




THE JJAXGIXG OF THE CKAXE. 



III. 

Thk picture fades ; as at a village fair 
A showman's views, dissolving into air, 

Again appear transfigured on the screen. 
So in my fancy this ; and now once more. 
In part transfigured, through the open door 
Appears the selfsame scene. 



571 



r^ 







Seated, I see the two again, 
But not alone ; they entertain 
A little angel unaware, 
With face as round as is the moon 
A royal guest with flaxen hair. 



Who, throned upon his lofty chair, 
Drums on the table with his spoon, 
Then drops it careless on the floor, 
To grasp at things unseen before. 
Are these celestial manners .' these 




572 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 




The ways that win, the arts that please ? 
Ah yes ; consider well the guest, 
And whatsoe'er he does seems best ; 
He ruleth by the right divine 
Of helplessness, so lately born 
In purple chambers of the morn. 
As sovereign over thee and thine. 
He speaketh not ; and yet there lies 
A conversation in his eyes ; 
The golden silence of the Greek, 



The gravest wisdom of the wise, 
Not spoken in language, but in looks 
More legible than printed books, 
As if he could but would not speak. 
And now, O monarch absolute. 
Thy power is put to proof ; for, lo ! 
Resistless, fathomless, and slow. 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea. 
And pushes back thy chair and thee. 
And so good night to King Canute. 




THE HANGhVG OF THE CRANE. 



573 



IV. 

As one who walking in a forest sees 

A lovely landscape through the parted trees, 

Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ; 
Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed 
Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed, 
So I behold the scene. 




There are two guests at table now ; 
The king, deposed and older grown, 
No longer occupies the throne, — 
The crown is on his sister's brow ; 
A Princess from the Fairy Isles, 
The very pattern girl of girls. 
All covered and embowered in curls. 
Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, 
And sailing with soft, silken sails 
From far-off Dreamland into ours. 
Above their bowls with rims of blue 



Four azure eyes of deeper hue 
Are looking, dreamy with delight ; 
Limpid as planets that emerge 
Above the ocean's rounded verge, 
Soft-shining through the summer night. 
Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing sec 
Beyond the horizon of their bowls ; 
Nor care they for the world that rolls 
With all its freight of troubled souls 
Into the davs that are to be. 




i^V ' 



574 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



V. 

Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, 
Again the drifting vapors intervene, 

And the moon's palHd disk is hidden quite ; 
And now I see the table wider grown, 
As round a pebble into water thrown 
Dilates a ring of light. 



I see the table wider grown, 
I see it garlanded with guests, 
As if fair Ariadne's Crown 
Out of the sky had fallen down ; 



Maidens within whose tender breasts 
A thousand restless hopes and fears, 
Forth reaching to the coming years. 
Flutter awhile, then quiet lie, 




Like timid birds that fain would fly. 
But do not dare to leave their nests ; — 
And youths, who in their strength elate 
Challenge the van and front of fate. 
Eager as champions to be 
In the divine knight-errantry 
Of youth, that travels sea and land 
Seeking adventures, or pursues. 



Through cities, and through solitudes 
Frequented by the lyric Muse, 
The phantom with the beckoning hand, 
That still allures and still eludes. 
O sweet illusions of the brain ! 
O sudden thrills of fire and frost ! 
The world is bright while ye remain. 
And dark and dead when ye are lost ! 



THE IIANGIXG OF THE CKAXE. 



i75 



VI. 

The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, 
Quickens its current as it nears the mill ; 

And so the stream of Time that lingereth 
In level places, and so dull appears, 
Runs with a swifter current as it nears 
The gloomy mills of Death. 



And now, like the magician's scroll, 
That in the owner's keeping shrinks 
With every wish he speaks or thinks. 
Till the last wish consumes the whole, 
The table dwindles, and again 
I see the two alone remain. 
The crown of stars is broken in parts ; 
Its jewels, brighter than the day. 
Have one by one been stolen away 
To shine in other homes and hearts. 
One is a wanderer now afar 



In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, 

Or sunny regions of Cathay ; 

And one is in the boisterous camp 

Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp. 

And battle's terrible array. 

I see the patient mother read, 

With aching heart, of wrecks that float 

Disabled on those seas remote. 

Or of some great heroic deed 

On battle-fields, where thousands bleed 

To lift one hero into fame. 




An.xious she bends her graceful head 
Above these chronicles of pain, 
And trembles with a secret dread 



Lost there among the drowned or slain 
She find the one beloved name. 




576 



THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



VII. 

After a day of cloud and wind and rain 
Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, 

And, touching all the darksome woods with light, 
Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, 
Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring 
Drops down into the night. 




What see I now .' The night is fair. 
The storm of grief, the clouds of care, 
The wind, the rain, have passed away ; 
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, 



The house is full of life and light : 
It is the Golden Wedding day. 
The guests come thronging in once more, 
Quick footsteps sound along the floor, 



L 




THE HAAG/AG OF 77/E CA'AAE. 



577 




The trooping children crowd tlic stair, 

And in and out and everywhere 

F'iashes along the corridor 

The sunshine of their golden hair. 

On the round table in the hall 

Another Ariadne's Crown 

Out of the sky hath fallen down ; 

More than one Monarch of the Moon 

Is drumming with his silver spoon ; 

The light of love shines overall. 

O fortunate, ( ) hajij^y dav I 



The people sing, the people say. 
The ancient bridegroom and the bride. 
Smiling contented and serene 
Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, 
Behold, well pleased, on every side 
Their forms and features multiplied 
As the reflection of a light 
Between two burnished mirrors gleams, 
Or lamps upon a bridge at night 
Stretch on and on before the sight. 
Till the long vista endless seems. 




MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



POEM FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS 
OF 1825 IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. 

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, 
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies. 

Ovid, Fastoru7>i, Lib. vi. 



" O C^SAR, we who are about to die 
Salute you ! " was the gladiators' cry 
In the arena, standing face to face 
With death and with the Roman popu- 
lace. 

O ye familiar scenes, — ye groves of 
pine, 

That once were mine and are no longer 
mine, — 

Thou river, widening through the mead- 
ows green 

To the vast sea, so near and yet un- 
seen, — 

Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose 

Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose 

And vanished, — we who are about to 
die 

Salute you ; earth and air and sea and 
sky, 

And the Imperial Sun that scatters 
down 

His sovereign splendors upon grove and 
town. 

Ye do not answer us ! ye do not hear ! 
We are forgotten ; and in your austere 
And calm indifference, ye little care 
Whether we come or go, or whence or 

where. 
What passing generations fill these 

halls. 
What passing voices echo from these 

walls. 
Ye heed not ; we are only as the blast, 
A moment heard, and then forever past. 

Not so the teachers who in earlier days 
Led our bewildered feet through learn- 
ing's maze ; 



They answer us — alas ! what have I 
said .'' 

What greetings come there from the 
voiceless dead .'' 

What salutation, welcome, or reply? 

What pressure from the hands that life- 
less lie .'' 

They are no longer here ; they all are 
gone 

Into the land of shadows, — all save one. 

Honor and reverence, and the good re- 
pute 

That follows faithful service as its fruit. 

Be unto him, whom living we salute. 

The great Italian poet, when he made 
His dreadful journey to the realms of 

shade. 
Met there the old instructor of his youth, 
And cried in tones of pity and of ruth : 
" O, never from the memory of my heart 
Your dear, paternal image shall depart. 
Who while on earth, ere yet by death 

surprised. 
Taught me how mortals are immortal- 
ized ; 
How grateful am I for that patient care 
All my life long my language shall de- 
clare." 

To-day we make the poet's words our 

own. 
And utter them in plaintive undertone ; 
Nor to the living only be they said. 
But to the other living called the dead. 
Whose dear, paternal images appear 
Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sun- 
shine here ; 
Whose simple lives, complete and with- 
out flaw. 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 579 


Were part and parcel of great Nature's 


That towers above the others "i Which 


law ; 


may be 


Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid. 


Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, 


" Here is thy talent in a napkin laid," 


Aja.\ the great, or bold Idomeneus ? " 


Rut labored in their sphere, as men who 




live 


Let him not boast who puts his armor on 


In the delight that work alone can give. 


As he who puts it off, the battle done. 


Peace be to them ; eternal peace and 


Study yourselves ; and most of all note 


rest. 


well 


And the fulfilment of the great behest : 


Wherein kind Nature meant you to ex- 


" Ye have been faithful over a few things, 


cel. 


Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings." 


Not every blossom ripens into fruit ; 




Minerva, the inventress of the flute. 


And ye who fill the places we once filled. 


Flung it aside, when she her face sur- 


And follow in the furrows that we tilled, 


veyed 


Young men, whose generous hearts are 


Distorted in a fountain as she played ; 


beating high. 


The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his 


We who are old, and are about to die. 


fate 


Salute you ; hail you ; take your hands 


Was one to make the bravest hesitate. 


in ours. 




And crown you with our welcome as with 


Write on your doors the saying wise and 


flowers ! 


okk 


How beautiful is youth ! how bright it 


" Be bold ! be bold ! " and everywhere 


gleams 


— " Be bold ; 


With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! 


Be not too bold ! " Yet better the ex- 


Book of Beginnings, Story without End, 


cess 


Each maid a heroine, and each man a 


Than the defect ; better the more than 


friend ! 


less ; 


Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, 


Better like Hector in the field to die. 


That holds the treasures of the universe ! 


Than like a perfumed Paris turn and fly. 


All possibilities are in its hands. 




No danger daunts it, and no foe with- 


And now, my classmates ; ye remaining 


stands ; 


few 


In its sublime audacity of faith. 


That number not the half of those we 


" Be thou removed ! " it to the mountain 


knew. 


saith. 


Ye, against whose familiar names not yet 


And witii ambitious feet, secure and 


The fatal asterisk of death is .set. 


proud. 


Ye I salute ! The horologe of Time 


Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud ! 


Strikes the half-century with a solemn 




chime, 


As ancient Priam at the .Scasan gate 


And summons us together once again. 


Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state 


The joy of meeting not unmixed with 


With the old men, too old and weak to 


pain. 


fight, 




Chirping like grasshoppers in their de- 


Where are the others .' Voices from the 


light 


deep 


To see the embattled hosts, with spear 


Caverns of darkness answer me : " They 


and shield, 


sleep ! " 


Of Trojans and Achaians in the field ; 


I name no names ; instinctively I feel 


So from the snowy summits of our years 


Each at some well-remembered grave 


We sec you in the plain, as each ajipears, 


will kneel, 


And cpiestion of you ; asking, " Who is 


And from the inscription wi]ie the weeds 


he 


and moss, 



58o 



MORITURr SALUTAMUS. 



For every heart best knoweth its own 
loss. 

I see their scattered gravestones gleam- 
ing white 

Through the pale dusk of the impending 
night ; 

O'er all alike the impartial sunset throws 

Its golden lilies mingled with the rose ; 

We give to each a tender thought, and 
pass 

Out of the graveyards with their tangled 
grass, 

Unto these scenes frequented by our feet 

When we were young, and life was fresh 
and sweet. 

What shall I say to you } What can I 

say 
Better than silence is 1 When I survey 
This throng of faces turned to meet my 

own. 
Friendly and fair, and yet to me un- 
known, 
Transformed the verv landscape seems to 

be; 
It is the same, yet not the same to me. 
So many memories crowd upon my brain. 
So many ghosts are in the wooded plain, 
I tain would steal away, with noiseless 

tread, 
As from a house where some one lieth 

dead. 
I cannot go ; — I pause ; — I hesitate ; 
My feet reluctant linger at the gate ; 
As one who struggles in a troubled 

dream 
To speak and cannot, to myself I seem. 

Vanish the dream ! Vanish the idle 
fears ! 

Vanish the rolling mists of fifty years ! 

Whatever time or space may intervene. 

I will not be a stranger in this scene. 

Here every doubt, all indecision, ends ; 

Hail, my companions, comrades, class- 
mates, friends ! 

Ah me ! the fifty years since last we met 
Seem to me fifty folios bound and set 
By Time, the great transcriber, on his 

shelves. 
Wherein are written the histories of our- 
selves. 



What tragedies, what comedies, are 

there ; 
What joy and grief, what rapture and 

despair ! 
What chronicles of triumph and defeat. 
Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat ! 
What records of regrets, and doubts, and 

fears ! 
What pages blotted, blistered by our 

tears ! 
What lovely landscapes on the margin 

shine. 
What sweet, angelic faces, what divine 
And holy images of love and trust, 
Undimmed by age, unsoiled by damp or 

dust ! 

Whose hand shall dare to open and ex- 

]3lore 
These volumes, closed and clasped for- 

evermore .' 
Not mine. With reverential feet I pass ; 
T hear a voice that cries, " Alas ! alas ! 
Whatever hath been written shall remain, 
Nor be erased nor written o'er again ; 
The unwritten only still belongs to thee : 
Take heed, and ponder well what that 

shall be." 

As children frightened by a thunder- 
cloud 
Are reassured if some one reads aloud 
A tale of wonder, with enchantment 

fraught. 
Or wild adventure, that diverts their 

thought. 
Let me endeavor with a tale to chase 
The gathering shadows of the time and 

place. 
And banish what we all too deeply feel 
Wholly to say, or wholly to conceal. 

In mediaeval Rome, I know not where, 
There stood an image with its arm in 

air. 
And on its lifted finger, shining clear, 
A golden ring with the device, " Strike 

here ! " 
Greatly the people wondered, though 

none guessed 
The meaning that these words but half 

expressed. 
Until a learned clerk, who at noonday 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



581 



With downcast eyes was passing on his 

way, 
Paused, and observed the spot, and 

marked it well. 
Whereon the shadow of the finger fell ; 
And, coming back at midnight, delved, 

and found 
A secret stairway leading under ground. 
Down this he passed into a spacious 

hall. 
Lit by a flaming jewel on the wall ; 
And opposite in threatening altitude 
With bow and shaft a brazen statue 

stood. 
Upon its forehead, like a coronet. 
Were these mysterious words of menace 

set : 
" That which I am, I am ; my fatal aim 
None can escape, not even yon luminous 

flame ! " 

Midway the hall was a fair table placed. 

With cloth of gold, and golden cups en- 
chased 

With rubies, and the plates and knives 
were gold, 

And gold the bread and viands mani- 
fold. 

Around it, silent, motionless, and sad. 

Were seated gallant knights in armor 
clad, 

And ladies beautiful with plume and 
zone, 

But they were stone, their hearts within 
were stone ; 

And the vast hall was filled in every 
part 

With silent crowds, stony in face and 
heart. 

Long at the scene, bewildered and 

amazed 
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder 

gazed ; 
Then from the table, by his greed made 

bold. 
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold. 
And suddenly from their seats the guests 

upsprang. 
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors 

rang. 
The archer sped his arrow, at their call, 
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall. 



And all was dark around and over- 
head ; — 

Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay 
dead ! 

The writer of this legend then records 
Its ghostly application in these words : 
The image is the Adversary old, 
Whose beckoning finger points to realms 

of gold ; 
Chir lusts and passions arc the downward 

stair 
That leads the soul from a diviner air ; 
The archer, Death ; the flaming jewel. 

Life ; 
Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the 

knife ; 
The knights and ladies, all whose flesh 

and bone 
By avarice have been hardened into 

stone ; 
The clerk, the scholar whom the love of 

pelf 
Tempts from his books and from his 

nobler self. 

The scholar and the world ! The endless 

strife. 
The discord in the harmonies of life ! 
The love of learning, the sequestered 

nooks. 
And all the sweet serenity of books ; 
The market-place, the eager love of gain. 
Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is 

pain ! 

But why, you ask me, should this talc be 

told 
To men grown old, or who are growing 

old? 
It is too late ! Ah, nothing is too late 
Till the tired heart shall cease to palpi- 
tate. 
Cato learned Greek at eighty ; Sophocles 
Wrote his grand G^dipus, and Simonides 
Bore off the prize of verse from his com- 
peers. 
When each had numbered more than 

fourscore years. 
And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten. 
Had but begun his Characters of Men ; 
Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightin- 
gales. 



582 



MORITURI SALUTAMUS. 



At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales ; 
Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last, 
Completed Faust when eighty years were 

past. 
These are indeed exceptions ; but they 

show 
How far the gulf-stream of our youth 

may flow 
Into the arctic regions of our lives, 
Where little else than life itself survives. 

As the barometer foretells the storm 

While still the skies are clear, the 
weather warm. 

So something in us, as old age draws 
near. 

Betrays the pressure of the atmosphere. 

The nimble mercury, ere we are aware, 

Descends the elastic ladder of the air ; 

The telltale blood in artery and vein 

Sinks from its higher levels in the brain ; 

Whatever poet, orator, or sage 

May say of it, old age is still old age. 

It is the waning, not the crescent moon ; 

The dusk of evening, not the blaze of 
noon ; 

It is not strength, but weakness ; not de- 
sire. 

But its surcease ; not the fierce heat of fire. 



The burning and consuming element. 
But that of ashes and of embers spent. 
In which some living sparks we still 

discern, 
Enough to warm, but not enough to 

burn. I 

When then } Shall we sit idly down and 

say ' 

The night hath come ; it is no longer 

day 1 i 

The night hath not yet come ; we are not 

quite 
Cut off from labor by the failing light ; 
Something remains for us to do or dare ; 
Even the oldest tree some fruit may 

bear; 
Not Qidipus Coloneus, or Greek Ode, 
Or tales of pilgrims that one morning 

rode 
Out of the gateway of the Tabard Inn, 
But other something, would we but 

begin ; 
For age is opportunity no less 
Than youth itself, though in another 

dress. 
And as the evening twilight fades away 
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by 

day. 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 



When I remember them, those friends 
of mine, 

Who are no longer here, tlie noble 
three, 

Who half my life were more than 
friends to me, 

And whose discourse was like a gener- 
ous wine, 
I most of all remember the divine 

Something, that shone in them, and 
made us see 

The archetypal man, and what might be 

The amplitude of Nature's first design. 
In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their 
hands ; 

I cannot find them. Nothing now is left 

But a majestic memory. They mean- 
while 
Wander together in Elysian lands. 

Perchance remembering me, who am 
bereft 

Of their dear presence, and, remember- 
ing, smile. 

II. 

In Attica thy birthplace should have 
been, 
Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas 
Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, 
So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene 
And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene ! 
Around thee would have swarmed the 

Attic bees ; 
Homer had been thy friend, or Soc- 
rates, 
And Plato welcomed thee to his de- 
mesne. 
For thee old legends breathed historic 
breath ; 



Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple 

sea. 
And in the sunset Jason's fleece of 

gold ! 
O, what hadst thou to do with cruel 

Death, 
Who wast so full of life, or Death with 

thee, 
That thou shouldst die before thou 

hadst grown old ! 

III. 

I .STAND again on the familiar shore. 
And hear the waves of the distracted 

sea 
Piteously calling and lamenting thee, 
And waiting restless at thy cottage 

door. 
The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean 

floor. 
The willows in the meadow, and the 

free 
Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome 

me ; 
Then why shouldst thou be dead, and 

come no more .' 
Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when 

common men 
Are busy with their trivial affairs, 
Having and holding .' Why, when 

thou hadst read 
Nature's mysterrous manuscript, and then 
Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, 
Why art thou silent ? Why shouldst 

thou be dead .' 

IV. 

River, that stealest with such silent pace 
Around the City of the Dead, where 

lies 
.\ friend who bore thy name, and whom 

these eves 



\ 



584 



A BOOK OF SONNETS. 



Shall see no more in his accustomed 

place, 
Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace 
And say good night, for now the 

western skies 
Are red with sunset, and gray mists 

arise 
Like clamps that gather on a dead 

man's face. 
Good night ! good night ! as we so oft 

have said 
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the 

days 
That are no more, and shall no more 

return. 
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone 

to bed ; 
I stay a little longer, as one stays 
To cover up the embers that still burn. 



The doors are all wide open ; at the gate 
The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, 
And seem to warm the air ; a dreamy 

haze 
Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like 

a fate, 
And on their margin, with sea-tides elate. 
The flooded Charles, as in the happier 

days. 
Writes the last letter of his name, and 

stays 
His restless steps, as if compelled to 

wait. 
I also wait ; but they will come no more. 
Those friends of mine, whose presence 

satisfied 
The thirst and hunger of my heart. 

Ah me ! 
They have forgotten the pathway to my 

door ! 
Something is gone from nature since 

they died, 
And summer is not summer, nor can be. 



CHAUCER. 

An old man in a lodge within a park ; 
The chamber walls depicted all around 
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, 
and hound. 



And the hurt deer. He listeneth to 
the lark, 
Whose song comes with the sunshine 
through the dark 
Of painted glass in leaden lattice 

bound ; 
He listeneth and he laugheth at the 

sound. 
Then writeth in a book like any clerk. 
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote 
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
Made beautiful with song ; and as I 
read 
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note 
Of lark and linnet, and from every 

page 
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery 
mead. 



SHAKESPEARE. 

A VISION as of crowded city streets. 
With human life in endless overflow ; 
Thunder of thoroughfares ; trumpets 

that blow 
To battle ; clamor, in obscure retreats 
Of sailors landed from their anchored 

fleets ; 
Tolling of bells in turrets, and below 
Voices of children, and bright flowers 

that throw 
O'er garden-walls their intermingled 

sweets ! 
This vision comes to me when I unfold 
The volume of the Poet paramount, 
Whom all the Muses loved, not one 

alone ; — 
Into his hands they put the lyre of gold. 
And, crowned with sacred laurel at 

their fount. 
Placed him as Musagetes on their 

throne. 



MILTON. 

I PACE the sounding sea-beach and be- 
hold 

How the voluminous billows roll and 
run. 

Upheaving and subsiding, while the 
sun 



A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA. 585 


Shines through their sheeted emerald 


Like gold and silver sands in some ra- 


far unrolled, 


vine 


And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold 


Where mountain streams have left 


by fold 


their channels bare ! 


All its loose-flowing garments into one, 


The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, 


Plunges upon the shore, and floods the 


where 


dun 


His patron saint descended in the sheen 


Pale reach of sands, and changes them 


Of his celestial armor, on serene 


to gold. 


And quiet nights, when all the heavens 


So in majestic cadence rise and fall 


were fair. 


The mighty undulations of thy song, 


Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fa- 


sightless bard, England's Maeonides ! 


ble 


And ever and anon, high over all 


Of Phaeton's wild course, that scorched 


Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and 


the skies 


strong. 


Where'er the hoofs of hi:: hot coursers 


Floods all the soul with its melodious 


trod ; 


seas. 


But the white drifts of worlds o'er chasms 




of sable, 


KEATS. 


The star-dust, that is whirled aloft antl 




flies 


The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's 


From the invisible chariot-wheels of 


sleep ; 


God. 


The shepherd-boy whose tale was left 




half told ! 




The solemn grove uplifts its shield of 


THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 


gold 




To the red rising moon, and loud and 


The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep 


deep 


And round the pebbly beaches far and 


The nightingale is singing from the steep ; 


wide 


It is midsummer, but the air is cold ; 


I heard the first wave of the rising tide 


Can it be death ? Alas, beside the 


Rush onward with uninterrupted 


fold 


sweep ; 


A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near 


A voice out of the silence of the deep. 


his sheep. 


A sound mysteriously mnltii>lied 


Lo ! in the moonlight gleams a marble 


As of a cataract from the mountain's 


white. 


side, 


On which I read : " Here lieth one 


Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. 


whose name 


So comes to us at times, from the un- 


Was writ in water." And was this the 


known 


meed 


And inaccessible solitudes of being. 


Of his sweet singing .' Rather let mc 


The rushing of the sea-tides of the 


write : 


soul ; 


" The smoking fla.x before it burst to 


And inspirations, that we deem our own, 


flame 


Are some divine foreshadowing and 


Was quenched by death, and broken 


foreseeing 


the bruised reed." 


Of things beyond our reason or control. 


THE GALAXY. 


A SUMMER DAY BY THE SEA. 


Torrent of light and river of the air, 


The sun is set ; and in his latest beams 


Along whose bed the glimmering stars 


Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold, 


are seen 


Slowlv upon the amber air unrolled, 



I 



58<J A BOO A' OP 


' SONNETS. 


The falling mantle of the Prophet 


Their fate who now are looking up to me 


seems. 


For help and furtherance .^ Their lives. 


From the dim headlands many a light- 


I said, 


house gleams, 


Would be a volume wherein I have read 


The street-lamps of the ocean ; and be- 


But the first chapters, and no longer 


hold, 


see 


O'erhead the banners of the night un- 


To read the rest of their dear history. 


fold ; 


So full of beauty and so full of dread. 


The day hath passed into the land of 


Be comforted ; the world is very old. 


dreams. 


And generations pass, as they have 


O summer day beside the joyous sea ! 


passed. 


O summer day so wonderful and white, 


A troop of shadows moving with the 


So full of gladness and so full of pain ! 


sun ; 


Forever and forever shalt thou be 


Thousands of times has the old tale been 


To some the gravestone of a dead de- 


told; 


light, 


The world belongs t© those who come 


To some the landmark of a new do- 


the last. 


main. 


They will find hope and strength as 




we have done. 


THE TIDES. 






A NAMELESS GRAVE. 


I SAW the long line of the vacant shore. 




The sea-weed and the shells upon the 


" A SOLDIER of the Union mustered out," 


sand. 


Is the inscription on an unknown grave 


And the brown rocks left bare on every 


At Newport News, beside the salt-sea 


hand, 


wave, 


As if the ebbing tide would flow no 


Nameless and dateless ; sentinel or 


more. 


scout 


Then heard I, more distinctly than before, 


Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout 


The ocean breathe and its great breast 


Of battle, when the loud artillery drave 


expand, 


Its iron wedges through the ranks of 


And hurrying came on the defenceless 


brave 


land 


And doomed battalions, storming the 


The insurgent waters with tumultuous 


redoubt. 


roar. 


Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea 


All thought and feeling and desire, I said. 


In thy forgotten grave ! with secret 


Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of 


shame 


song 


I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn 


Have ebbed from me forever ! Sud- 


When I remember thou hast given for me 


denly o'er me 


All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very 


They swept again from their deep ocean 


name. 


bed. 


And I can give thee nothing in return. 


And in a tumult of delight, and strong 




As youth, and beautiful as youth, up- 




bore me. 


SLEEP. 




Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful 


A SHADOW. 


sound 




Seems from some faint ^olian harp- 


I SAID unto myself, if I were dead, 


string caught ; 


What would befall these children ? 


Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of 


What would be 


thought 



IL PONTE VECCIIIO DI FIKENZE. 



5«7 



As Hermes with his lyre in sleep pro- 
found 
The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus 
bound ; 

For I am weary, and am overwrought 

With too much toil, with too much 
care distraught, 

And with the iron crown of anguish 
crowned. 
Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and 
cheek, 

peaceful Sleep ! until from pain re- 

leased 

1 breathe again uninterrupted breath ! 
Ah, with what subtile meaning did the 

Greek 9 
Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast 
Whereof the greater mystery is death ! 



THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE. 

Taddeo Gaddi built me. I am old. 
Five centuries old. I plant my foot of 

stone 
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael's own 
Was planted on the dragon. Fold by 
fold 
Beneath me as it struggles, I behold 
Its glistening scales. Twice hath it 
overthrown 



My kindred and companions. Me 
alone 

It moveth not, but is by me controlled. 
I can remember when the Medici 

Were driven from Florence ; longer 
still ago 

The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. 
Florence adorns me with her jewelry ; 

And when I think that Michael Angelo 

Hath leaned on me, 1 glory in myself. 



IL PONTE VECCIIIO DI FIRENZE. 

Gaddi mi fece ; il Ponte Vecchio sono ; 
Cinquecent' anni gii sull' Arno pianto 
II piede, come il suo Michele Santo 
Pianto sul draco. Mentre ch' io ra- 
giono 

Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono 

Le rilucenti scaglie. Ha questi af- 

franto 
Due volte i miei maggior. Me solo 

intanto 
Neppure muove, ed io non 1' abbandono. 

Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati 
I Medici ; pur quando Ghibellino 
E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento. 

Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati ; 
E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino 
Su me posava, insupcrbir mi sento. 



NOTES. 



Page 19. CopLis de Manrique. 

This poem of Manrique is a great favor- 
ite in Spain. No less than four poetic 
Glosses, or running commentaries, upon 
it have been published, no one of which, 
however, possesses great poetic merit. 
That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de 
Valdepefias, is the best. It is known as 
the Glosa del Cartiijo. There is also a 
prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. 

The following stanzas of the poem 
were found in the author's pocket, after 
his death on the field of battle. 

" O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost 

give 
Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

" Our days are covered o'er with grief, 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good. 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

" Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 

" Thy goods are bought with many a 
groan. 
By the hot sweat of toil alone. 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form departs." 

Page 31. AV//0- C/iristian. 

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Ad- 
miral, and Peder Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, 



who for his great prowess received the 
popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thun- 
der-shield. In childhood he was a tail- 
or's apprentice, and rose to his high rank 
before the age of twenty-eight, when he 
was killed in a duel. 

Page 36. The Skeleton in Armor. 

This Ballad was suggested to me while 
riding on the sea-shore at Newport. A 
year or two previous a skeleton had been 
dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and 
corroded armor ; and the idea occurred to 
me of connecting it with the Round 
Tower at Newport, generally known 
hitherto as the Old Windmill, though 
now claimed by the Danes as a work of 
their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in 
the Memoir es de la Sociki Roy ale des Ati- 
iiquaires du Nord, for 1838- 1839, says : — 

"There is no mistaking in this instance 
the style in which the more ancient stone 
edifices of the North were constructed, — 
the style which belongs to the Roman or 
Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, es- 
pecially after the time of Charlemagne, 
diffused itself from Italy over the whole 
of the West and North of Europe, where 
it continued to predominate until the close 
of the twelfth century, — that style which 
some authors have, from one of its most 
striking characteristics, called the round 
arch style, the same which in England is 
denominated Saxon and sometimes Nor- 
man architecture. 

" On the ancient structure in Newport 
there are no ornaments remaining, which 
might possibly have served to guide us in 
assigning the probable date of its erection. 
That no vestige whatever is found of the 
pointed arch, nor any appro.\imation to it, 
is indicative of an earlier rather than of a 
later period. From such characteristics 
as remain, however, we can scarcely form 
any other inference than one, in which 1 
am persuaded that all who arc familiar 
with Old-Northern architecture will con- 



590 



NOTES. 



cur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED 
AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER 

THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This re- 
mark applies, of course, to the original 
building only, and not to the alterations 
that it subsequently received ; for there 
are several such alterations in the upper 
part of the building which cannot be mis- 
taken, and which were most likely occa- 
sioned by its being adapted in modern 
times to various uses ; for example, as 
the substructure of a windmill, and lat- 
terly as a hay magazine. To the same 
times may be referred the windows, the 
fireplace, and the apertures made above 
the columns. That this building could 
not have been erected for a windmill, is 
what an architect will easily discern." 

I will not enter into a discussion of the 
point. It is sufficiently well established 
for the purpose of a ballad ; though 
doubtless many a citizen of Newport, 
who has passed his days within sight of 
the Round Tower, will be ready to ex- 
claim, with Sancho : " God bless me ! 
did I not warn you to have a care of what 
you were doing, for that it was nothing 
but a windmill ; and nobody could mis- 
take it, but one who had the like in his 
head." 

Page 39. Skoal ! 

In Scandinavia, this is the customary 
salutation when drinking a health. I 
have slightly changed the orthography 
of the word, in order to preserve the 
correct pronunciation. 

Page 41. The Luck of Edenhall. 

The tradition upon which this ballad 
is founded, and the " shards of the Luck 
of Edenhall," still exist in England. The 
goblet is in the possession of Sir Christo- 
pher Musgrave, Bart, of Eden Hall, Cum- 
berland ; and is not so entirely shattered 
as the ballad leaves it. 

Page 42. The Elected Knight. 

This strange and somewhat mystical 
ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's 
Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It 
seems to refer to the first preaching of 
Christianity in the North, and to the in- 



stitution of Knight-Errantry. The three 
maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, 
and Charity. The irregularities of the 
original have been carefully preserved in 
the translation. 

Page 43. The Children of the Lord's 

Slipper. 

There is something patriarchal still lin- 
gering about rural life in Sweden, which 
renders it a fit theme for song. Almost 
primeval simplicity reigns over that 
Northern land, — almost primeval soli- 
tude and stillness. You pass out from 
the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, 
the scene changes to a wild, woodland 
landscape. Around you are forests of fir. 
Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, 
trailing with moss, and heavy with red 
and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet 
of yellow leaves ; and the air is warm and 
balmy. On a wooden bridge you cross a 
little silver stream ; and anon come forth 
into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. 
Wooden fences divide the adjoining 
fields. Across the road are gates, which 
are opened by troops of children. The 
peasants take off their hats as you pass ; 
you sneeze, and they cry, " God bless 
you ! " The houses in the villages and 
smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, 
and for the most part painted red. The 
floors of the taverns are strewn with the 
fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many vil- 
lages there are no taverns, and the peas- 
ants take turns in receiving travellers. The 
thrifty housewife* shows you into the best 
chamber, the walls of which are hung 
round with rude pictures from the Bible ; 
and brings you her heavy silver spoons, 
— an heirloom, — to dip the curdled milk 
from the pan. You have oaten cakes 
baked some months before, or bread with 
anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps 
a little pine bark. 

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has 
brought his horses from the plough, and 
harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary 
travellers come and go in uncouth one- 
horse chaises. Most of them have pipes 
in their mouths, and, hanging around 
their necks in front, a leather wallet, in 



NOTES. 



591 



which they carry tobacco, and the great 
bank-notes of the country, as large as 
your two hands. You meet, also, groups 
of Dalekarlian peasant-women, travelling 
homeward or townward in pursuit of 
work. They walk barefoot, carrying in 
their hands their shoes, which have high 
heels under the hollow of the foot, and 
soles of birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches, 
standing by the roadside, each in its own 
little Garden of Gethsemane. In the 
parish register great events are doubtless 
recorded. Some old king was christened 
or buried in that church ; and a little 
sexton, with a rusty key, shows you the 
baptismal font, or the coffin. In the 
churchyard are a few flowers, and much 
green grass ; and daily the shadow of the 
church spire, with its long, tapering 
finger, counts the tombs, representing a 
dial-plate of human life, on which the 
hours and minutes are the graves of men. 
The stones are flat, and large, and low, 
and perhaps sunken, like the roofs of old 
houses. On some are armorial bearings ; 
on others only the initials of the poor 
tenants, with a date, as on the roofs of 
Dutch cottages. They all sleep with 
their heads to the westward. Each held 
a lighted taper in his hand when he died ; 
and in his coffin were placed his little 
heart-treasures, and a piece of money for 
his last journey. Babes that came life- 
less into the world were carried in the 
arms of gray-haired old men to the only 
cradle they ever slept in ; and in the 
shroud of the dead mother were laid the 
little garments of the child that lived and 
(lied in her bosom. And over this scene 
the village pastor looks from his window 
in the stillness of midnight, and says in 
his heart, " How quietly they rest, all the 
departed ! " 

Near the churchyard gate stands a 
poor-bo.x, fastened to a post by iron 
bands, and secured by a padlock, with a 
sloping wooden roof to keep off the rain. 
If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the 
church steps and con their psalm-books. 
Others are coming down the road with 
their beloved pastor, who talks to them 
of holv things from beneath his broad- 



brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and 
harvests, and of the parable of the sower, 
that went forth to sow. He leads them 
to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant 
pastures of the spirit-land. He is their 
patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both 
priest and king, though he has no other 
throne than the church puljjit. The 
women carry psalm-books in their hands, 
wrapped in silk handkerchiefs, and listen 
devoutly to the good man's words. But 
the young men, like Gallio, care for none 
of these things. They are busy counting 
the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant- 
girls, their number being an indication of 
the wearer's wealth. It may end in a 
wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village 
wedding in Sweden. It shall be in sum- 
mer time, that there may be flowers, and 
in a southern province, that the bride 
may be fair. The early song of the lark 
and of chanticleer are mingling in the 
clear morning air, and the sun, the 
heavenly bridegroom with golden locks, 
arises in the east, just as our earthly 
bridegroom with yellow hair arises in the 
south. In the yard there is a sound of 
voices and trampling of hoofs, and horses 
are led forth and saddled. The steed 
that is to bear the bridegroom has a 
bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and 
a garland of corn-floavers around his 
neck. Friends from the neighboring 
farms come riding in, their blue cloaks 
streaming to the wind ; and finally the 
happy bridegroom, with a whip in his 
hand, and a monstrous nosegay in the 
breast of his black jacket, conies forth 
from his chamber ; and then to horse and 
away, towards the village where the bride 
already sits and waits. 

P'oremost rides the spokesman, fol- 
lowed by some half-dozen village musi- 
cians. Ne.xt comes the bridegroom be- 
tween his two groomsmen, and then forty 
or fifty friends and wedding guests, half 
of them perhaps with pistols and guns in 
their hands. A kind of baggage-wagon 
brings up the rear, laden with food and 
drink for these merry pilgrims. At the 
entrance of every village stands a tri- 
umphal arch, adorncil with flowers and 



592 



NO TES. 



ribbons and evergreens ; and as they pass 
beneath it the wedding guests fire a salute, 
and the whole procession stops. And 
straight from every pocket flies a black- 
jack, filled with punch or brandy. It is 
passed from hand to hand among the 
crowd ; provisions are brought from the 
wagon, and after eating and drinking and 
hurrahing the procession moves forward 
again, and at length draws near the house 
of the bride. Four heralds ride forward 
to announce that a knight and his attend- 
ants are in the neighboring forest, and 
pray for hospitality. " How many are 
you .? " asks the bride's father. " At least 
three hundred," is the answer ; and to 
this the host replies, " Yes ; were you 
seven times as many, you should all be 
welcome : and in token thereof receive 
this cup." . Whereupon each herald re- 
ceives a can of ale ; and soon after the 
whole jovial company comes storming 
into the farmer's yard, and, riding round 
the May-pole, which stands in the centre, 
alights amid a grand salute and flourish 
of music. 

In the hall sits the bride, with a crown 
;upon her head and a tear in her eye, like 
the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. 
She is dressed in a red bodice and kirtle 
with loose linen sleeves. There is a gilded 
belt around her waist ; and around her 
neck strings of golden beads, and a golden 
chain. On the crown rests a wreath 
,of wild roses, and below it another of cy- 
press. Loose over her shoulders falls her 
flaxen hair ; and her blue innocent eyes 
^re fixed upon the ground. O thou good 
soul ! thou hast hard hands, but a soft 
heart ! Thou art poor. The very orna- 
ments thou vvearest are not thine. They 
have been hired for this great day. Yet 
art thou rich ; rich in health, rich in hope, 
rich in thy first, young, fervent love. The 
blessing of Heaven be upon thee ! So 
•thinks the parish priest, as he joins to- 
gether the hands of bride and bridegroom, 
paying in deep, solemn tones, — "I give 
thee in marriage this damsel, to be thy 
\vedded wife in all honor, and to share 
the half of thy bed, thy lock and key, and 
every third penny which you two may 
.possess, or may inherit, and all the rights 



which Upland's laws provide, and the 
holy King Erik gave." 

The dinner is now served, and the bride 
sits between the bridegroom and the 
priest. The spokesman delivers an ora- 
tion after the ancient custom of his fathers. 
He interlards it well with quotations from 
the Bible ; and invites the Saviour to be 
present at this marriage feast, as he was 
at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee. 
The table is not sparingly set forth. Each 
makes a long arm and the feast goes 
cheerly on. Punch and brandy pass round 
between the courses, and here and there 
a pipe is smoked while waiting for the 
next dish. They sit long at table ; but, 
as all things must have an end, so must a 
Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. 
It is led off by the bride and the priest, 
who perform a solemn minuet together. 
Not till after midnight comes the last 
dance. The girls form a ring around the 
bride, to keep her from the hands of the 
married women, who endeavor to break 
through' the magic circle, and seize their 
new sister. After long struggling they 
succeed ; and the crown is taken from 
her head and the jewels from her neck, 
and her bodice is unlaced and her kirtle 
taken off ; and like a vestal virgin clad all 
in white she goes, but it is to her marriage 
chamber, not to her grave ; and the wed- 
ding guests follow her with lighted can- 
dles in their hands. And this is a village 
bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly chang- 
ing seasons of the Northern clime. There 
is no long and lingering spring, unfolding 
leaf and blossom one by one ; no long 
and lingering autumn, pompous with 
many-colored leaves and the glow of In- 
dian summers. But winter and summer 
are wonderful, and pass into each other. 
The quail has hardly ceased piping in the 
corn, when winter from the folds of trail-- 
ing clouds sows broadcast over the land 
snow, icicles, and rattling hail. The days 
wane apace. Erelong the sun hardly 
rises above the horizon, or does not rise 
at all. The moon and the stars shine 
through the day ; only, at noon, they are 
pale and wan, and in the southern sky a 
red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along 



NOTES. 



593 



^he horizon, and then goes out. And 
pleasantly under the silver moon, and 
under the silent, solemn stars, ring the 
steel-shoes of the skaters on the frozen 
sea, and voices, and the sound of bells. 

And now the Northern Lights begin to 
burn, faintly at first, like sunbeams play- 
ing in the waters of the blue sea. Then a 
soft crimson glow tinges the heavens. 
There is a blush on the cheek of night. 
The colors come and go, and change from 
crimson to gold, from gold to crimson. 
The snow is stained with rosy light. 
Twofold from the zenith, east and west, 
flames a fiery sword : and a broad band 
]iasses athwart the heavens like a summer 
sunset. Soft purple clouds come sailing 
over the sky, and through their vapory 
folds the winking stars shine white as 
silver. With such pomp as this is Merry 
Christmas ushered in, though only a 
single star heralded the first Christmas. 
And in memory of that day the Swedish 
peasants dance on straw ; and the peas- 
ant-girls throw straws at the timbered 
roof of the hall, and for every one that 
sticks in a crack shall a groomsman come 
to their wedding. Merry Christmas in- 
deed ! For pious souls there shall be 
church songs and sermons, but for Swed- 
ish peasants, brandy and nut-brown ale in 
wooden bowls ; and the great Yule-cake 
crowned with a cheese, and garlanded 
with apjjles, and upholding a three-armed 
candlestick over the Christmas feast. 
They may tell tales, too, of Jons Lunds- 
bracka, and Lunkenfus, and the great 
Riddar Finke of Pingsdaga.* 

And now the glad, leafy midsummer full 
of blossoms and the song of nightingales, 
is come ! Saint John has taken the flowers 
and festival of heathen Balder ; and in 
every village there is a May-pole fifty feet 
high, with wreaths and roses and ribbons 
streaming in the wind, and a noisy weather- 
cock on top, to tell the village whence 
the wind cometh and whither it goeth. 
The sun does not set till ten o'clock 
at night ; and the children are at play in 
the streets an hour later. The windows 
and doors are all open, and you may sit 
♦Titles of Swedish popular tales. 



38 



and read till midnight without a canrlle. 
O, how beautiful is the summer night, 
which is not night, but a sunless yet un- 
clouded day, descending upon earth with 
dews and shadows and refreshing cool- 
ness ! How beautiful the long, mild twi- 
light, which like a silver clasp unites to- 
day with yesterday ! How beautiful the 
silent hour, when Morning and Evening 
thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath 
the starless sky of midnight ! From the 
church-tower in the public square the bell 
tolls the hour, with a soft, musical chime ; 
and the watchman, whose watch-tower is 
the belfry, blows a blast in his horn, for 
each stroke of the hammer, and four times, 
to the four corners of the heavens, in a 
sonorous voice he chants, — 

" IIo ! watchman, ho ! 
Twelve is the clock ! 
God keep our town 
From fire and brand 
And hostile hand ! 
Twelve is the clock ! " 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he 
can see the sun all night long ; and farther 
north the priest stands at his door in the 
warm midnight, and lights his pipe with 
a common burning-glass. 

Page 43. The Feast of the Leafy Pa- 
vilions. 

In Swedish, Lofhyddohogtidcn, The 
Leaf-huts'-high-tide. 

Page 43. Hbrberg. 

The peasant-painter of Sweden. He is 
known chiefly by his altar-pieces in the 
village churches. 

Page 44 IVallin. 

A distinguished pulpit-orator and poet. 
He is particularly rcmarkal)le for the 
beauty and sublimity of his psalms. 

Page 66. As Lope says. 

" La colcra 
de un Espafiol scntado no se tcmpla, 
sino le represcntan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el (iencsis." 
Lo/>e de I 'ega. 



594 



NOTES. 



Page 68. Abreiiuncio Satanas. 

" Digo, Senora, respondio Sancho, lo 
que tengo dicho, que de los azotes aber- 
nuncio. Abrenuncio, habeis de decir, 
Sancho, y no como decis, dijo el Duque." 

— Don Quixote, Part II. ch, 35. 

Page 72. Fray Carrillo. 

The allusion here is to a Spanish Epi- 
gram. 

" Siempre Fray Carrillo estas 
cansandonos aca fuera ; 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas ! " 

B'ohl de Faber. Flore sta, No. 61 1. 

Page 72. Padre Francisco. 

This is from an Italian popular song. 

" ' Padre Francesco, 
Padre Francesco ! ' 

— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco .'' — 

' V e una bella ragazzina 

Che si vuole confessar ! ' 
Fatte r entrare, fatte 1' entrare ! 
Che la voglio confessare." 

Kopisch. Volksthiimlicke Poesien aus 

alien Mundarten Italiens imd seiner 

Inseln, p. 194. 

Page 73. Ave ! cnjus calcent dare. 

From a monkish hymn of the twelfth 
century, in Sir Alexander Croke's Essay 
on the Origin, Progress, and Decline 'of 
Rhyming Latin Verse, p. 109. 

Page 76. The gold of the Bnsni. 

Busne is the name given by the Gyp- 
sies to all who are not of their race. 

Page 77. Count of the Cales. 

The Gypsies call themselves Cales. 
See Sorrow's valuable and extremely in- 
teresting work, The Zincali ; or an Ac- 
count of the Gypsies in Spain. London, 
1841. 

Page 78. Asks if his money-bags ivould 
rise, 

" i Y volviendome a un lado, vi a un 
Avariento, que estaba preguntando a 
otro, (que por haber sido embalsamado, y 
estar le.xos sus tripas no hablaba, porque 



no habian llegado si habian de resucitar 
aquel dia todos los enterrados) si resuci- 
tarian unos bolsones suyos ? " — El Sueho 
de las Calaveras. 

Page 79. And amen! said my Cid the 
Cainpeador. 

A line from the ancient Poema del Cid. 

"Amen, dixo Mio Cid el Campeador." 

Line 3044. 

Page 79. The river of his thoughts. 

This expression is from Dante ; 

" Si che chiaro 
Per essa scenda della mente il fiume." 

Byron has likewise used the expres- 
sion ; though I do not recollect in which 
of his poems. 

Page 79. Mari Franca. 

A common Spanish proverb, used to 
turn aside a question one does not wish 
to answer ; 

" Porque caso Mari Franca 
quatro leguas de Salamanca." 

Page 80. Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, with good reason, con- 
sider this color of the eye as beautiful, 
and celebrate it in song ; as, for example, 
in the well-known Villancico : 

" Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 
ay hagan los cielos 
que de mi te acuerdes ! 

Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos." 
Bohl de Faber. Floresta, No. 255. 
Dante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as em- 
eralds. Purgatorio, xxxi. 116. Lami says, 
in his Annotazioni, " Erano i suoi occhi 
d' un turchino verdiccio, simile a quel del 
mare." 

Page 80. The Avenging Child. 

See the ancient Ballads of El Infantt 

Vengador, and Calayfios. 

Page 80. All are sleeping. 

From the Spanish. Bohl de Faber. 
Floresta, No. 282. 



.VOl'ES. 



595 



Page 87. Good nig^it. 

From the Spanish ; as are likewise the 
songs immediately following, and that 
which commences the first scene of Act 
III. 

Page 93. The evil eye. 

" In the Gitano language, casting the 
evil eye is called Qiterelar nasiila, which 
simply means making sick, and which, 
according to the common superstition, is 
accomplished by casting an evil look at 
people, especially children, who, from the 
tenderness of their constitution, are sup- 
posed to be more easily blighted than 
those of a more mature age. After re- 
ceiving the evil glance, they fall sick, and 
die in a few hours. 

" The Spaniards have very little to say 
respecting the evil eye, though the belief 
in it is very prevalent, especially in Anda- 
lusia, amongst the lower orders. A stag's 
horn is considered a good safeguard, and 
on that account a small horn, tipped with 
silver, is frequently attached to the chil- 
dren's necks by means of a cord braided 
from the hair of a black mare's tail. 
Should the evil glance be cast, it is imag- 
ined that the horn receives it, and in- 
stantly snaps asunder. Such horns may 
be purchased in some of the silversmiths' 
shops at Seville." — Borrow's Zincali, 
Vol. I. ch. ix. 

Page 94. On the top of a moimtain 1 
stand. 

This and the following scraps of song 
are from Borrow's Zincali ; or an Accon'tt 
of the Gvpsies in Spain. 

The Gypsy words in the same scene 
may be thus interpreted : — 

yohn-Dorados, pieces of gold. 
Pigeon, a simpleton. 
/« your morocco, stripped. 
Dmes, sheets. 
Moon, a shirt. 
Chirelin, a thief. 

Murcigalleros, those who steal at night- 
fall. 

Kastilleros, footpads. 
Hermit, highway-robber. 
Planets, candles. 
Coininandineiits, the fingers. 



Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person 
asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards and Dancing John, to take 
flight. 

Page 98. If thou art sleeping, maiden. 

From the Spanish ; as is likewise the 
song of the Contrabandista on page 99. 

Page 103. All the Foresters of Flan- 
ders. 

The title of Foresters was given to the 
early governors of Flanders, appointed by 
the kings of France. Lyderick du Bucq, 
in the days of Clotaire the Second, was 
the first of them ; and Beaudoin Bras-de- 
Fer, who stole away the fair Judith, 
daughter of Charles the Bald, from the 
French court, and married her in Bruges, 
was the last. After him the title of For- 
ester was changed to that of Count. 
Philippe d' Alsace, Guy de Dampierre, 
and Louis de Crecy, coming later in the 
order of time, were therefore rather 
Counts than Foresters. Philippe went 
twice to the Holy Land as a Crusader, 
ind died of the plague at St. Jean- 
J'Acre, shortly after the capture of the 
city by the Christians. Guy de Dampierre 
died in the prison of Compiegne. Louis 
de Crecy was son and successor of Rob- 
ert de Bethune, who strangled his wife, 
Yolande de Bourgogne, with the bridle 
of his horse, for having poisoned, at the 
age of eleven years, Charles, his son by 
his first wife, Blanche d'Anjou. 

Page 103. Stately dames, like queens 
attended. 

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, 
visited Flanders with his queen, she was 
so astonished at the magnificence of the 
dames of Bruges, that she e.xclaimed : 
"Je croyais etre seule reine ici, mais il 
parait que ceux de Flandre qui se trouvent 
dans nos prisons sont tous des princes, car 
leurs femmes sont habiliees comme des 
princesses et des reines." 

When the burgomasters of Ghent, 
Bruges, and Ypres went to Paris to pay 



596 



NOTES. 



homage to King^ John, in 135 1, they were 
received with great pomp and distinction ; 
but, being invited to a festival, they ob- 
served that their seats at table were not 
furnished with cushions ; whereupon, to 
make known their displeasure at this 
want of regard to their dignity, they folded 
their richly embroidered cloaks and 
seated themselves upon them. On rising 
from table, they left their cloaks behind 
them, and, being informed of their ap- 
parent forgetfulness, Simon van Eer- 
trycke, burgomaster of Bruges, replied, 
" We Flemings are not in the habit of 
carrying away our cushions after din- 
ner." 

Page 103. Knights who bore the Fleece 
of Gold. 

Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le 
Bon, espoused Isabella of Portugal on the 
loth of January, 1430 ; and on the same 
day instituted the famous order of the 
Fleece of Gold. 

Page 103. / beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, 
was left by the death of her father, 
Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of 
twenty, the richest heiress of Europe. 
She came to Bruges, as Countess of 
Flanders, in 1477, and in the same year 
was married by proxy to the Archduke 
Maximilian. According to the custom 
of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maxi- 
milian's substitute, slept with the princess. 
They were both in complete dress, sep- 
arated by a naked sword, and attended 
by four armed guards. Marie was adored 
by her subjects for her gentleness and 
her many other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor 
Frederick the Third, and is the same per- 
son mentioned afterwards in the poem of 
Nuremberg as the Kaiser Maximilian, 
and the hero of Pfinzing's poem of Teuer- 
dank. Having been imprisoned by the 
revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused 
to release him, till he consented to kneel 
in the public square, and to swear on the 
Holy Evangelists and the body of Saint 
Donatus, that he would not take ven- 
geance upon them for their rebellion. 



Page 103. The bloody battle of the 
Spurs of Gold. 

This battle, the most memorable in 
Flemish history, was fought under the 
walls of Courtray, on the iith of July, 
1302, between the French and the Flem- 
ings, the former commanded by Robert, 
Comte d'Artois, and the latter by Guil- 
laume de Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Na- 
mur. The French army was completely 
routed, with a loss of twenty thousand in- 
fantry and seven thousand calvary ; among 
whom were sixty-three princes, dukes, 
and counts, seven hundred lords-ban- 
neret, and eleven hundred noblemen. 
The flower of the French nobility per- 
ished on that day ; to which history has 
given the name of the youmSe des Eper- 
oiis d'Or, from the great number of golden 
spurs found on the field of battle. Seven 
hundred of them were hung up as a 
trophy in the church of Notre Dame de 
Courtray ; and, as the cavaliers of that 
day wore but a single spur each, these 
vouched to God for the violent and 
bloody death of seven hundred of his 
creatures. 

Page 103. Sazv the fight at Minne- 
water. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were 
digging a canal at Minnewater, to bring 
the waters of the Lys from Deynze to 
their city, they were attacked and routed 
by the citizens of Ghent, whose com- 
merce would have been much injured 
by the canal. They were led by Jean 
Lyons, captain of a military company at 
Ghent, called the Chaperons Blancs. He 
had great sway over the turbulent pop- 
ulace, who, in those prosperous times of 
the city, gained an easy livelihood by 
laboring two or three days in the week, 
and had the remaining four or five to 
devote to public affairs. The fight at 
Minnewater was followed by open re- 
bellion against Louis de Maele, the Count 
of Flanders and Protector of Bruges. 
His superb cnateau of Wondelghem was 
pillaged and burnt ; and the insurgents 
forced the gates of Bruges, and entered 
in triumph, with Lyons mounted at their 



NOTES. 



597 



head. A few days afterwards he died 
suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a 
check at the village of Nevele ; and two 
hundred of them perished in the church, 
which was burned by the Count's orders. 
One of the chiefs, Jean de Lannoy, took 
refuge in the belfry. From the summit of 
the tower he held forth his purse filled with 
gold, and begged for deliverance. It was 
in vain. His enemies cried to him from 
below to save himself as best he might ; 
and, half suffocated with smoke and 
flame, he threw himself from the tower 
and perished at their feet. Peace was 
soon afterwards established, and the 
Count retired to faithful Bruges. 

Page 103. Tke Golden Dragon^s nest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the 
church of St. Sophia, at Constantinople, 
in one of the Crusades, and placed on the 
belfry of Bruges, was afterwards trans- 
ported to Ghent by Philip van Artevelde, 
and still adorns the belfiy of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at 
Ghent is, " Myiien naem is Roland ; als 
ik klep is er brand, and als ik luy is er 
victorie in het land." My name is Ro- 
land ; when I toll there is fire, and when 
I ring there is victory in the land. 

Page 104. That their great imperial 
city stretched its hand through every 
clime. 
An old popular proverb of the town 
runs thus : — 

" Nilrnberg' s Hand 

Geht diirch a lie /.and." 
Nuremberg's hand 
Goes through every land. 

Page 104. Sat the poet Melchior sing- 
ing Kaiser Maximilian s praise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most 
celebrated German poets of the sixteenth 
century. The hero of his Teiierdank was 
the reigning emperor, Maximilian ; and 
the poem was to the Germans of that day 
what the Orlando Furioso was to the 
Italians. Maximilian is mentioned be- 



fore, in the Beljry of Bruges. See page 
103. 

Page 105. In the church of sainted Se- 
bald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. 

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the 
church which bears his name, is one of 
the richest works of art in Nuremberg. 
It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter 
Vischer and his sons, who labored upon 
it thirteen years. It is adorned with 
nearly one hundred figures, among which 
those of the Twelve Apostles are con- 
spicuous for size and beauty. 

Page 105. In the church of sainted 
Laivrence stands a pix of sculpture 
rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels 
of the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam 
Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpt- 
ure in white stone, and rises to the height 
of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, 
whose richly painted windows cover it 
with varied colors. 

Page 106. Wisest of the Twelve Wise 
Masters. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the 
title of the original corporation of the 
Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler 
of Nuremberg, though not one of the 
original Twelve, was the most renowned 
of the Mastersingers, as well as the most 
voluminous. He flourished in the six- 
teenth century ; and left behind him 
thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript, 
containing two hundred and eight plays, 
one thousand and seven hundred comic 
tales, and between four and five thousand 
yric poems. 

Page 106. As in Adam Puschman^s 
song. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the 
death of Hans Sachs, describes him as 
he appeared in a vision : — 

" An old man, 
Gray and white, and dove-like, 
Who had, in sooth, a great beard. 



598 



NOTES. 



And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps." 

Page 117. Who, tm/iarmed, on his 
tusks once caught the bolts of the thun- 
der. 

"A delegation of warriors from the 
Delaware tribe having visited the gov- 
ernor of Virginia, during the Revolution, 
on matters of business, after these had 
been discussed and settled in council, the 
governor asked them some questions 
relative to their country, and among oth- 
ers, what they knew or had heard of the 
animal whose bones were found at the 
Saltlicks on the Ohio. Their chief 
speaker immediately put himself into an 
attitude of oratory, and with a pomp 
suited to what he conceived the elevation 
of his subject, informed him that it was a 
tradition handed down from their fathers, 
' that in ancient times a herd of these 
tremendous animals came to the Bigbone 
licks, and began an universal destruction 
of the bear, deer, elks, buffaloes, and 
other animals which had been created 
for the use of the Indians : that the Great 
Man above, looking down and seeing 
this, was so enraged that he seized his 
lightning, descended on the earth, seated 
himself on a neighboring mountain, on a 
rock of which his seat and the print of 
his feet are still to be seen, and hurled 
his bolts among them till the whole were 
slaughtered, except the big bull, who, 
presenting his forehead to the shafts, 
shook them off as they fell ; but missing 
one at length, it wounded him in the 
side ; whereon, springing round, he 
bounded over the Ohio, over the Wabash, 
the Illinois, and finally over the great 
lakes, where he is living at this day.' " — 
Jefferson's Notes on Virginia, Query VI. 

Page 117. The Occultation of Orion. 

Astronomically speaking, this title is 
incorrect ; as I apply to a constel- 
lation what can properly be applied to 
some of its stars only. But my obser- 
vation is made from the hill of song, and 
not from that of science; and will, I trust. 



be found sufficiently accurate for the 
present purj^ose. 

Page 124. Walter von der Vogelweid. 

Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird- 
Meadow, was one of the principal Min- 
nesingers of the thirteenth century. He 
triumphed over Heinrich von Ofterdingen 
in that poetic contest at Wartburg Castle, 
known in literary history as the War of 
Wartburg. 

Page 126. Like imperial Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne may be called by pre- 
eminence the monarch of farmers. 
According to the German tradition, in 
seasons of great abundance, his spirit 
crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge at 
Bingen, and blesses the cornfields and 
the vineyards. During his lifetime, he 
did not disdain, says Montesquieu, " to 
sell the eggs from the farm-yards of his 
domains, and the- superfluous vegetables 
of his gardens ; while he distributed 
among his people the wealth of the 
Lombards and the immense treasures of 
the Huns." 

Page 184. 

Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this 
passage, by stating, that sometimes, 
though not usually, vessels are launched 
fully sparred and rigged. I have availed 
myself of the exception as better suited 
to my purposes than the general rule ; 
but the reader will see that it is neither a 
blunder nor a poetic license. On this 
subject a friend in Portland, Maine, 
writes me thus : — 

" In this State, and also, I am told, in 
New York, ships are sometimes rigged 
upon the stocks, in order to save time, or 
to make a show. There was a fine, 
large ship launched last summer at 
Ellsworth, fully sparred and rigged. 
Some years ago a ship was launched 
here, with her rigging, spars, sails, and 
cargo aboard. She sailed the next day 
and — was never heard of again ! I 



NOTES. 



599 



hope this will not be the fate of your 
poem ! " 

Page 192. Sir Hmnphrey Gilbert. 

" When the wind abated and the 
vessels were near enough, the Admiral 
was seen constantly sitting in the stern, 
with a book in his hand. On the 9th of 
September he was seen for the last time, 
and was heard by the people of the Hind 
to say, ' We are as near heaven by sea as 
by land.' In the following night, the 
lights of the ship suddenly disajspeared. 
The people in the other vessel kept a 
good lookout for him during the re- 
mainder of the voyage. On the 22d of 
September they arrived, through much 
tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But 
nothing more was seen or heard of the 
Admiral." — Belknap's American Biog- 
7-aphy, I. 203. 

Page 204. The Blind Girl of Castil- 
Cuilli. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful 
])oem, is to the South of France what 
liurns is to the South of Scotland, — the 
representative of the heart of the 
people, — one of those happy bards who 
are born with their mouths full of birds 
{la bouco plena d' aouzelous). He has 
written his own biography in a poetic 
form, and the simple narrative of his 
l)overty, his struggles, and his triumphs 
is very touching. He still lives at Agen, 
on the Garonne ; and long may he live 
there to delight his native land with 
native songs ! 

The following description of his person 
and way of life is taken from the graphic 
pages of " Beam and the Pyrenees," by 
Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming 
pen has done so much to illustrate the 
French provinces and their literature. 

" At the entrance of the promenade, 
Du Gravier, is a row of small houses, 
— some cafesy others shops, the indica- 
tion of which is a painted cloth placed 
across the way, with the owner's name in 
bright gold letters, in the manner of the 
arcades in the streets, and their an- 
nouncements. One of the most glaring 
of these was, we observed, a bright blue 



flag, bordered with gold ; on which, in 
large gold letters, appeared the name of 
'Jasmin, Coiffeur.' We entered, and 
were welcomed by a smiling, dark-eyed 
woman, who informed us that her hus- 
band was busy at that moment dressing a 
customer's hair, but he was desirous to 
receive us, and begged we would walk 
into his parlor at the back of the shop. 

" She e.\hibited to us a laurel crown of 
gold, of delicate workmanship, sent from 
the city of Clcmence Isaure, Toulouse, to 
the poet ; who will probably one day 
take his place in the capitoul. Next came 
a golden cup, with an inscription in his 
honor, given by the citizens of Auch; a 
gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the 
king, Louis Philippe ; an emerald ring 
worn and presented by the lamented 
Duke of Orleans ; a pearl pin, by the 
graceful Duchess, who, on the poet's 
visit to Paris accompanied by his son, 
received him in the words he puts into 
the mouth of Henri Quatre : — 

' Brabes Gaseous ! 
A moun amou per bcus aou dibes creyre : 
Benes ! benes ! ey plaze de bous beyre : 

Aproucha bous ! ' 

A fine service of linen, the offering of 
the town of Pau, after its citizens had 
given fetes in his honor, and loaded him 
with caresses and praises ; and knick- 
knacks and jewels of all descriptions 
offered to him by lady-ambassadresses, 
and great lords; English 'misses' and 
'miladis' ; and French, and foreigners 
of all nations who did or did not under- 
stand Gascon. 

" All this, though startling, was not 
convincing ; Jasmin, the barber, might 
only be a fashion, a furore, a caprice, 
after all ; and it was evident that he 
knew how to get up a scene well. When 
we had become nearly tired of looking 
over these tributes to his genius, the dooi 
opened, and the poet himself appeared. 
His manner was free and unembarrassed, 
well-bred, and lively ; he received our 
compliments naturally, and like one ac- 
customed to homage ; said he was ill, 
and unfortunately too hoarse to read any- 



6oo 



NOTES. 



thing to us, or should have been de- 
lighted to do so. He spoke with a broad 
Gascon accent, and very rapidly and 
eloquently ; ran over the story of his 
successes ; told us that his grandfather 
had been a beggar, and all his family 
very poor ; that he was now as rich as 
he wished to be ; his son placed in a 
good position at Nantes ; then showed us 
his son's picture, and spoke of his dis- 
position ; to which his brisk little wife 
added, that, though no fool, he had not 
his father's genius, to which truth Jasmin 
assented as a matter of course. I told 
him of having seen mention made of him 
in an English review ; which he said had 
been sent him by Lord Durham, who had 
paid him a visit ; and I then spoke of 
' Me cal mouri ' as known to me. This 
was enough to make him forget his 
hoarseness and every other evil : it would 
never do for me to imagine that that little 
song was his best composition ; it was 
merely his first ; he must try to read 
to me a little of ' L'Abuglo,' — a few 
verses of ' Frangouneto.' ' You will be 
charmed,' said he; 'but if I were well, 
and you would give me the pleasure of 
your company for some time, if you were 
not merely running through Agen, I 
would kill you with weeping, — I would 
make you die with distress for my poor 
Margarido, — my pretty Frangouneto ! ' 

" He caught up two copies of his book, 
from a pile lying on the table, and mak- 
ing us sit close to him, he pointed out 
the French translation on one side, which 
he told us to follow while he read in Gas- 
con. He began in a rich, soft voice, and 
as he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet 
on hearing the player-king recite the dis- 
asters of Hecuba was but a type of ours, 
to find ourselves carried away by the 
spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes swam 
in tears ; he became pale and red ; he 
trembled ; he recovered himself; his face 
was now joyous, now exulting, gay, jo- 
cose ; in fact, he was twenty actors in 
one ; he rang the changes from Rachel to 
Bouffe ; and he finished by delighting us, 
besides beguiling us of our tears, and 
overwhelming us with astonishment. 

" He would have been a treasure on 



the stage ; for he is still, though his first 
youth is past, remarkably good-looking 
and striking ; with black, sparkling eyes, 
of intense expression ; a fine, ruddy com- 
plexion ; a countenance of wondrous mo- 
bility ; a good figure ; and action full of 
fire and grace ; he has handsome hands, 
which he uses with infinite effect ; and, 
on the whole, he is the best actor of the 
kind I ever saw. I could now quite un- 
derstand what a troubadour or Jongleur 
might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a 
revived specimen of that extinct race. 
Such as he is might have been Gaucelm 
Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of Coeur de 
Lion, who lamented the death of the hero 
in such moving strains ; such might have 
been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang 
the praises of Queen Elinore's beauty ; 
such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own 
Garonne ; such the wild Vidal : certain 
it is, that none of these troubadours of 
old could more move, by their singing or 
reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their 
long-smothered fire and traditional magic 
seems reillumined. 

" We found we had stayed hours in- 
stead of minutes with the poet ; but he 
would not hear of any apology, — only 
regretted that his voice was so out of 
tune, in consequence of a violent cold, 
under which he was really laboring, and 
hoped to see us again. He told us our 
countrywomen of Pau had laden him with 
kindness and attention, and spoke with 
such enthusiasm of the beauty of certain 
'misses,' that I feared his little wife 
would feel somewhat piqued ; but, on the 
contrary, she stood by, smiling and happy, 
and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. 
I remarked that he had restored the 
poetry of the troubadours ; asked him if 
he knew their songs ; and said he was 
worthy to stand at their head. ' I am, in- 
deed, a troubadour,' said he, with energy ; 
' but I am fai beyond them all : they 
were but beginners ; they never composed 
a poem like my Fran90uneto ! there are 
no poets in France now. — there cannot 
be ; the language does not admit of it ; 
where is the fire, the spirit, the expres- 
sion, the tenderness, the force of the Gas- 
con .'' French is but the ladder to reac'n 



NOTES. 



60 1 



to the first floor of Gascon, — how can you 
get up to a height except by a ladder ! ' 

" I returned by Agen, after an absence 
in the Pyrenees of some months, and re- 
newed my acquaintance with Jasmin and 
his darlv-eyed wife. I did not expect that 
I should be recognized ; but the moment 
I entered the little shop I was hailed 
as an old friend. ' Ah ! ' cried Jasmin, 
' enfin la voila encore ! ' I could not but 
be flattered by this recollection, but soon 
found it was less on my own account that 
I was thus welcomed, than because a cir- 
cumstance had occurred to the poet which 
he thought I could perhaps explain. He 
produced several French newspapers, in 
which he pointed out to me an article 
headed ' Jasmin a Londres ' ; being a 
translation of certain notices of himself, 
which had appeared in a leading English 
literary journal. He had, he said, been 
informed of the honor done him by nu- 
merous friends, and assured me his fame 
had been much spread by this means ; 
and he was so delighted on the occasion, 
that he had resolved to learn English, in 
order that he might judge of the transla- 
tions from his works, which, he had been 
told, were well done. I enjoyed his sur- 
prise, while I informed him that I knew 
who was the reviewer and translator ; 
and explained the reason for the verses 
giving pleasure in an English dress to be 
the superior simplicity of the English lan- 
guage over Modern French, for which he 
has a great contempt, as unfitted for lyr- 
ical composition. He inquired of me re- 
specting Burns, to whom he had been 
likened ; and begged me to tell him 
something of Moore. The delight of 
himself and his wife was amusing, at hav- 
ing discovered a secret which had puz- 
zled them so long. 

" He had a thousand things to tell me ; 
in particular, that he had only the day 
before received a letter from the Duchess 
of Orleans, informing him that she had 
ordered a medal of her late husband to 
be struck, the first of which would be 
sent to him : she also announced to iiim 
the agreeable news of the king having 
granted him a pension of a thousand 



francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as 
he told us all this ; and declared, much 
as he was elated at the possession of a 
sum which made him a rich man for life, 
the kindness of the Duchess gratified him 
even more. 

" He then made us sit down while he 
read us two new poems ; both charming, 
and full of grace and naivete ; and one 
very affecting, being an address to the 
king, alluding to the death of his son. 
As he read, his wife stood by, and fear- 
ing we did not quite comprehend his lan- 
guage, she made a remark to that effect : 
to which he answered impatiently, ' Non- 
sense, — don't you see they are in tears .' ' 
This was unanswerable ; and we were al- 
lowed to hear the poem to the end ; and 
I certainly never listened to anything more 
feelingly and energetically delivered. 

" We had much conversation, for he 
was anxious to detain us, and, in the 
course of it, he told me he had been by 
some accused of vanity. ' O,' he rejoined, 
' what would you have ! I am a child of 
nature, and cannot conceal my feelings ; 
the only difference between me and a 
man of refinement is, that he knows how 
to conceal his vanity and exultation at 
success, which I let everybody see.'" — 
Beam and the Pyrenees, I. 369 ct seq. 

Page 209. A Christmas Carol. 

The following description of Christmas 
in Burgundy is from M. Fertiault's Coup 
d''CEil sitr les Noels en lionrgoq-iie, pre- 
fixed to the Paris edition of Les Noels 
Donrgiiignons de Bernard de la Montioye 
(Gui B(irozai), 1842. 

" Every year at the approach of Advent, 
people refresh their memories, clear their 
throats, and begin preluding, in the long 
evenings by the fireside, those carols 
whose invariable and eternal theme is the 
coming of the Messiah. They take from 
old closets pampliiets, little collections 
begrimed with dust and smoke, to which 
the press, and sometimes the pen, has 
consigned these songs ; and as soon as 
the first Sunday of .Advent sounds, they 
gossip, they gad about, they sit together 
by the fireside, sometimes at one house, 
sometimes at another, t.iking turns in 



6o: 



A'OIES. 



paying for the chestnuts and white wine, 
but singing with one common voice the 
grotesque praises of the Little Jesiis. 
There are very few villages even, which, 
during all the evenings of Advent, do not 
hear some of these curious canticles 
shouted in their streets, to the nasal drone 
of bagpipes. In this case the minstrel 
comes as a reinforcement to the singers 
at the fireside ; he brings and adds his 
dose of joy (spontaneous or mercenary, it 
matters little which) to the joy which 
breathes around the hearth-stone ; and 
when the voices vibrate and resound, one 
voice more is always welcome. There, it 
is not |he purity of the notes which makes 
the concert, but the quantity, — non qiial- 
itas, sed quatititas ; then (to finish at once 
with the minstrel), when the Saviour has 
at length been born in the manger, and 
the beautiful Christmas Eve is passed, 
the rustic piper makes his round among 
the houses, where every one compliments 
and thanks him, and, moreover, gives 
him in small coin the price of the shrill 
notes with which he has enlivened the 
evening entertainments. 

" More or less until Christmas Eve, all 
goes on in this way among our devout 
singers, with the difference of some gal- 
lons of wine or some hundreds of chest- 
nuts. But this famous eve once come, 
the scale is pitched upon a higher key ; 
the closing evening must be a memorable 
one. The toilet is begun at nightfall ; 
then comes the hour of supper, admon- 
ishing divers appetites ; and groups, as 
numerous as possible, are formed to take 
together this comfortable evening repast. 
The supper finished, a circle gathers 
around the hearth, which is arranged and 
set in order this evening after a particular 
fashion, and which at a later hour of the 
night is to become the object of special 
interest to the children. On the burning 
brands an enormous log has been placed. 
This log assuredly does not change its 
natuie, but it changes its name during 
this evening : it is called the Suche (the 
Yule-log). ' Took you,' say they to the 
children, ' if you are good this evening, 
Noel ' (for with children one must always 
personify) ' will rain down sugar-plums 



in the night.' And the children sit de- 
murely, keeping as quiet as their tur- 
bulent little natures will permit. The 
groups of older persons, not always as 
orderly as the children, seize this good 
opportunity to surrender themselves with 
merry hearts and boisterous voices to the 
chanted worship of the miraculous Noel. 
For this final solemnity, they have kept 
the most powerful, the most enthusiastic, 
the most electrifying carols. Noel ! 
Noel ! Noel ! This magic word re- 
sounds on all sides ; it seasons every 
sauce, it is served up with every course. 
Of the thousands of canticles which are 
heard on this famous eve, ninety-nine in 
a hundred begin and end with this word ; 
which is, one may say, their Alpha and 
Omega, their crown and footstool. This 
last evening, the merry-making is pro- 
longed. Instead of retiring at ten or 
eleven o'clock, as is generally done on 
all the preceding evenings, they wait for 
the stroke of midnight : this word suffi- 
ciently proclaims to what ceremony they 
are going to repair. For ten minutes or 
a quarter of an hour, the bells have been 
calling the faithful with a triple-bob- 
major ; and each one, furnished with a 
little taper streaked with various colors 
(the Christmas Candle), goes through the 
crowded streets, where the lanterns are 
dancing like Will-o'-the-Wisps, at the 
impatient summons of the multitudinous 
chimes. It is the Midnight Mass. Once 
inside the church, they hear with more or 
less piety the Mass, emblematic of the 
coming of the Messiah. Then in tumult 
and great haste they return homeward, 
always in numerous groups ; they salute 
the Yule-log ; they pay homage to the 
hearth ; they sit down at table ; and, 
amid songs which reverberate louder than 
ever, make this meal of after-Christmas, 
so long looked for, so cherished, so joy- 
ous, so noisy, and which it has been 
thought fit to call, we hardly know why, 
Rossignon. The supper eaten at nightfall 
is no impediment, as you may imagine, to 
the appetite's returning ; above all, if the 
going to and from church has made the 
devout eaters feel some little shafts of 
the sharp and biting north-wind. l\os- 



NOTES. 



603 



sio^iioii then goes on merrily, — sometimes 
far into the morning hours ; but, never- 
theless, gradually throats grow hoarse, 
stomachs are filled, the Yule-log burns 
out, and at last the hour arrives when 
each one, as best he may, regains his 
domicile and his bed, and puts with him- 
self between the sheets the material for a 
good sore-throat, or a good indigestion, 
for the morrow. Previous to this, care 
has been taken to place in the slippers, 
or wooden shoes of the children, the 
sugar-plums, which shall be for them, 
on their waking, the welcome fruits of 
the Christmas log." 

In the Glossary, the Suche, or Yule- 
log, is thus defined : — 

" This is a huge log, which is placed 
on the fire on Christmas Eve, and which 
in Burgundy is called, on this account, 
lai Suche de Noei. Then the father of 
the family, particularly among the middle 
classes, sings solemnly Christmas carols 
with his wife and children, the smallest 
of whom he sends into the corner to pray 
that the Yule-log may bear him some 
sugar-plums. Meanwhile, little parcels 
of them are placed under each end of 
the log, and the children come and pick 
them up, believing, in geod faith, that the 
great log has borne them." 

Page 211. The Golden Legend. 

The old Legenda Anrea, or Golden 
Legend, was originally written in Latin, 
in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de 
Voragine, a Dominican friar, who after- 
wards became Archbishop of Genoa, and 
died in 1292. 

He called his book simply " Legends 
of the Saints." The epithet of Golden 
was given it by his admirers ; for, as 
Wynkin de Worde says, " Like as pass- 
eth gold in value all other metals, so this 
Legend e.xceedeth all other books." But 
Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind, 
calls it " a book written by a man of a 
leaden heart for the basenesse of the er- 
rours, that are without wit or reason, and 
of a brazen forehead, for his impudent 
boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous 
and incredible." 

This work, the great text-book of the 



legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was 
translated into French in the fourteenth 
century by Jean de Vignay, and in the 
fifteenth into English by William Ca.\ton. 
It has lately been made more accessible 
by a new French translation : La Ligcnde 
Dorie, traduite dtt Latin, far M. G. B. 
Paris, 1850. There is a copy of the orig- 
inal, with the Gesta Longobirdorum ap- 
pended, in the Harvard College Library, 
Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496. 
The title-page is wanting ; and the vol- 
ume begins with the Tabula Legendorum. 
I have called this poem the Golden Le- 
gend, because the story upon which it is 
founded seems to me to surpass all other 
legends in beauty and significance. It 
exhibits, amid the corruptions of the 
Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterested- 
ness and self-sacrifice, and the power of 
Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufticient for 
all the exigencies of life and death. The 
story is told, and perhaps invented, by 
Hartmann von der Aue, a Minnesinger 
of the twelfth century. The original may 
be found in Mailath's Altdcutsche Ge- 
dichte, with a modern German version. 
There is another in Marbach's Volks- 
biicher. No. 32. 

Page 212. 

For these bells have been anointed, 
And baptized with holy water ! 

The Consecration and Baptism of Bells 
is one of the most curious ceremonies of 
the Church in the Middle Ages. The 
Council of Cologne ordained as follows : 

" Let the bells be blessed, as the trum- 
pets of the Church militant, by which 
the people are assembled to hear the 
word of God ; the clergy to announce 
his mercy by day, and his truth in their 
nocturnal vigils : that by their sound the 
faithful may be invited to pr.iyers, and 
that the spirit of devotion in them may 
be increased. The fathers have also 
maintained that demons affrighted by 
the sound of bells calling Christians to 
prayers, would flee away ; and when they 
fled, the persons of the faithful would be 
secure : that the destruction of lightnings 
and whirlwinds would be averted, and 



I 



6o4 



NOTES. 



the spirits of the storm defeated." — 
Edinburgh Eiicyclopadia, Art. Bells. See 
also Scheible's Kloster, VI. 776. 

Page 228. It is the tnalediction of 
Eve ! 

" Nee esses plus quam femina, quae 
nunc etiam viros transcendis, et quae 
maledictionem Evas in benedictionem 
vertisti Mariae." — Epistola Abcelardi 
Heloissa. 

Page 239. To come back to iny text ! 

In giving this sermon of Friar Cuth- 
bert as a specimen of the Ristis Paschales, 
or street-preaching of the monks at 
Easter, I have exaggerated nothing. 
This very anecdote, offensive as it is, 
comes from a discourse of Fatlier Bar- 
letta, a Dominican friar of the fifteenth 
century, whose fame as a popular 
preacher was so great, that it gave rise 
to the proverb, 

Nescit predicare 
Qui nescit Barlettare. 

" Among the abuses introduced in this 
century," says Tiraboschi, " was that of 
exciting from the pulpit the laughter of 
the hearers ; as if that were the same 
thing as converting them. We have 
examples of this, not only in Italy, but 
also in France, where the sermons of 
Menot and Maillard, and of others, who 
would make a better appearance on the 
stage than in the pulpit, are still cele- 
brated for such follies." 

If the reader is curious to see how far 
the freedom of speech was carried in 
these popular sermons, he is referred to 
Scheible's Kloster, Vol. I., where he will 
find extracts from Abraham a Sancta 
Clara, Sebastian Frank, and others ; and 
in particular an anonymous discourse 
called Der Grduel der Verwiistiuig, The 
Abomination of Desolation, preached at 
Ottakring, a village west of Vienna, 
November 25, 1782, in which the license 
of language is carried to its utmost limit. 

See also Predicatoriana, on Revelations 
singtdieres et amusantes siir les Predica- 
teiirs ; par G. P. Philomneste. (Menin.) 
This work contains extracts from the 



popular sermons of St. Vincent Ferrier, 
Barletta, Menot, Maillard, Marini, Rau- 
lin, Valladier, De Besse, Camus, Pere 
Andre, Bening, and the most eloquent of 
all, Jacques Brydaine. 

My authority for the spiritual inter- 
pretation of bell-ringing, which follows, 
is Durandus, Patiott. Divin. Offic, 
Lib. I. cap. 4. 

Page 242. The Nativity : a Mira- 
cle-Play. 

A singular chapter in the history of 
the Middle Ages is that which gives 
account of the early Christian Drama, 
the Mysteries, Moralities, and Miracle- 
Plays, which were at first performed in 
churches, and afterwards in the streets, 
on fixed or movable stages. For the 
most part, the Mysteries were founded 
on the historic portions of the Old and 
New Testaments, and the Miracle-Plays 
on the lives of Saints ; a distinction not 
always observed, however, for in Mr. 
Wright's " Early Mysteries and other 
Latin Poems of the Twelfth and Thir- 
teenth Centuries," the Resurrection of 
Lazarus is called a Miracle, and not a 
Mystery. The Moralities were plays, in 
which the Virtues and Vices were person- 
ified. 

The earliest religious play, which has 
been preserved, is the Ckristos Paschon of 
Gregory Nazianzen, written in Greek, in 
the fourth century. Next to this come 
the remarkable Latin plays of Roswitha, 
the Nun of Gandersheim, in the tenth 
century, which, though crude and want- 
ing in artistic construction, are marked 
by a good deal of dramatic power and 
interest. A handsome edition of these 
plays, with a French translation, has been 
lately published, entitled 7 hedtre de 
Rotsvitha, Keligieuse allcmande du X^ 
Slide. Par Charles Magnitt. Paris, 

1845. 

The most important collections of 
English Mysteries and Miracle-Plays are 
those known as the Townley, the 
Chester, and the Coventry Plays. The 
first of these collections has been pub- 
lished by the Surtees Society, and the 
other two by the Shakespeare Societj'. 



NOTES. 



605 



In his Introduction to the Coventry 
Mysteries, the editor, Mr. Hallivvell, 
quotes the following passage from 
Dugdale's Antiquities of Warwick- 
shire : — 

"Before the suppression of the mon- 
asteries, this city was very famous for 
the pageants, that were played therein, 
upon Corpus-Christi day ; which, oc- 
casioning very great confluence of people 
thither, from far and near, was of no 
small benefit thereto ; which pageants 
being acted with mighty state and rever- 
ence by the friars of this house, had 
theaters for the severall scenes, very 
large and high, placed upon wheels, and 
drawn to all the eminent parts of the 
city, for the better advantage of specta- 
tors ; and contain'd the story of the New 
Testament, composed into old English 
Rithme, as appeareth by an ancient MS. 
intituled Lttdus Cor-poris Christi, or Ludtii 
Conventricr. I have been told by some 
old people, who in their younger years 
were eyewitnesses of these pageants so 
acted, that the yearly confluence of peo- 
ple to see that shew was extraordinary 
great, and yielded no small advantage to 
this city." 

The representation of religious plays 
has not yet been wholly discontinued by 
the Roman Church. At Ober-Ammer- 
gau, in the Tyrol, a grand spectacle of 
this kind is exhibited once in ten years. 
A very graphic description of that which 
took place in the year 1850 is given by 
Miss Anna Mary Howitt, in her " Art- 
Student in Munich," Vol. I. Chap. IV. 
She says : — 

" We had come expecting to feel our 
souls revolt at so material a representa- 
tion of Christ, as any representation of 
him we naturally imagined must be in a 
peasant's Miracle-Play. Yet so far, 
strange to confess, neither horror, dis- 
gust, nor contempt was excited in our 
minds. Such an earnest solemnity and 
simplicity breathed throughout the whole 
of the performance, that to me, at least, 
anything like anger, or a perception of 
the ludicrous, would have seemed more 
irreverent on my part than was this 
simple, childlike rendering of the sublime 



Christian tragedy. We felt at times as 
though the figures of Cimabue's, Giotto's, 
and Perugino's pictures had become ani- 
mated, and were moving before us ; 
there was the same simple arrangement 
and brilliant color of drapery, — the 
same earnest, quiet dignity about the 
heads, whilst the entire absence of all 
theatrical effect wonderfully increased the 
illusion. There were scenes and groups 
so extraordinarily like the early Italian 
pictures, that you could have declared 
they were the works of Giotto and 
Perugino, and not living men and women, 
had not the figures moved and spoken, 
and the breeze stirred their richly colored 
drapery, and the sun cast long, moving 
shadows behind them on the stage. 
These effects of sunshine and shadow, 
and of drapery fluttered by the wind, 
were very striking and beautiful ; one 
could imagine how the Greeks must have 
availed themselves of such striking effects 
in their theatres open to the sky." 

Mr. Bayard Taylor, in his " Eldorado," 
gives a description of a Mystery he saw 
performed at San Lionel, in Mexico. 
See Vol. II. Chap. XI. 

" Against the wing-wall of the Haci- 
enda del Mayo, which occupied one end 
of the plaza, was raised a platform, on 
which stood a table covered with scarlet 
cloth. A rude bower of cane-lcaves, on 
one end of the platform, represented the 
manger of Bethlehem ; while a cord, 
stretched from its top across the plaza to 
a hole in the front of the church, bore a 
large tinsel star, suspended by a hole in 
its centre. There was quite a crowd in 
the plaza, and very soon a procession 
appeared, coming up from the lower part 
of the village. The three kings took the 
lead ; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that 
gloried in a gilded saddle and rose-be- 
sprinkled mane and tail, followed them, 
led by the angel ; and several women, 
with curious masks of paper, brought up 
the rear. Two characters, of the harle- 
quin sort — one with a dog's head on his 
shoulders, and the other a bald-headed 
friar, with a huge hat hanging on his 
back — played all sorts of antics for the 
diversion of the crowd. After making 



6o6 



NO TES. 



the circuit of the plaza, the Virgin was 
taken to the platform, and entered the 
manger. King Herod took his seat at 
the scarlet table, with an attendant in 
blue coat and red sash, whom I took to 
be his Prime Minister. The three kings 
remained on their horses in front of the 
church ; but between them and the plat- 
form, under the string on which the star 
was to slide, walked two men in long 
white robes and blue hoods, with parch- 
ment folios in their hands. These were 
the Wise Men of the East, as one might 
readily know from their solemn air, and 
the mysterious glances which they cast 
towards all quarters of the heavens. 

" In a little while, a company of women 
on the platform, concealed behind a cur- 
tain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune 
of ' O pescator dell'onda.' At the proper 
moment, the Magi turned towards the 
platform, followed by the star, to which a 
string was conveniently attached, that it 
might be slid along the line. The three 
kings followed the star till it reached the 
manger, when they dismounted, and in- 
quired for the sovereign, whom it had led 
them to visit. They were invited upon 
the platform, and introduced to Herod, 
as the only king ; this did not seem to 
satisfy them, and, after some conversa- 
tion, they retired. By this time the star 
had receded to the other end of the line, 
and commenced moving forward again, 
they following. The angel called them 
into the manger, where, upon their knees, 
they were shown a small wooden box, 
supposed to contain the sacred infant ; 
they then retired, and the star brought 
them back no more. After this depart- 
ure, King Herod declared himself greatly 
confused by what he had witnessed, and 
was veiy much afraid this newly found 
king would weaken his power. Upon 
consultation with his Prime Minister, the 
Massacre of the Innocents was decided 
upon, as the only means of security. 

" The angel, on hearing this, gave 
warning to the Virgin, who quickly got 
down from the platform, mounted her be- 
spangled donkey, and hurried off. Her> 
od's Prime Minister directed all the chil- 
dren to be handed up for execution. A 



boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and 
thrust forward ; the Minister took him 
by the heels in spite of his kicking, and 
held his head on the table. The little 
brother and sister of the boy, thinking he 
was really to be decapitated, yelled at 
the top of their voices, in an agony of ter- 
ror, which threw the crowd into a roar of 
laughter. King Herod brought down 
his sword with a whack on the talkie, and 
the Prime Minister, dipping his brush 
into a pot of white paint which stood be- 
fore him, made a flaring cross on the 
boy's face. Several other boys were 
caught and served likewise ; and, finally, 
the two harlequins, whose kicks and 
struggles nearly shook down the platform. 
The procession then went off up the hill, 
followed by the whole population of the 
village. All the evening there were fan- 
dangos in the meson, bonfires and rock- 
ets on the plaza, ringing of bells, and 
high mass in the church, with the accom- 
paniment of two guitars, tinkling to lively 
polkas." 

In 1852 there was a representation of 
this kind by Germans in Boston : and I 
have now before me the copy of a play- 
bill announcing the performance, on June 
10, 1852, in Cincinnati, of the "Great 
Biblico-Historical Drama, the Life of 
Jesus Christ," with the characters and 
the names of the performers. 

Page 256. The Scriptorium. 

A most interesting volume might be 
written' on the Calligraphers and Chry- 
sographers, the transcribers and illumi- 
nators of manuscripts in the Middle Ages. 
These men were for the most part monks, 
who labored, sometimes for pleasure and 
sometimes for penance, in multiplying 
copies of the classics and the Scriptures. 

" Of all bodily labors, which are proper 
for us," says Cassiodorus, the old Cala- 
brian monk, " that of copying books has 
always been more to my taste than any 
other. The more so, as in this exercise 
the mind is instructed by the reading of 
the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of 
homily to the others, whom these books 
may reach. It is preaching with the 
hand, by converting the fingers into 



tongues ; it is publishing to men in silence 
the words of salvation ; in fine, it is fight- 
ing against the demon with pen and ink. 
As many words as a transcriber writes, 
so many wounds the demon receives. 
In a word, a recluse, seated in his chair 
to copy books, travels into different prov- 
inces, without moving from the spot, and 
the labor of his hands is felt even where 
he is not." 

Nearly every monastery was provided 
with its Scriptorium. Nicolas de Clair- 
vaux, St. Bernard's secretary, in one of 
his letters describes his cell, which he 
calls Scriptoriolum, where he copied 
books. And Mabillon, in his Etudes Mo- 
nastiqiies, says that in his time were still 
to be seen at Citeaux "many of those lit- 
tle cells, where the transcribers and book- 
binders worked." 

Silvestre's Paleogi-aphie Uitiversellc 
contains a vast number of fac-similes of 
the most beautiful illuminated manuscripts 
of all ages and all countries ; and Mont- 
faucon in his PalcEographia Grceca gives 
the names of over three hundred callig- 
raphers. He also gives an account of 
the books they copied, and the colophons, 
with which, as with a satisfactory flourish 
of the pen, they closed their long-contin- 
ued labors. Many of these are very curi- 
ous ; expressing joy, humility, remorse ; 
entreating the reader's prayers and par- 
don for the writer's sins ; and sometimes 
pronouncing a malediction on any one 
who should §teal the book. A few of 
these I subjoin : — 

" As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their 
native land, so are transcribers made 
glad, beholding the end of a book." 

" Sweet is it to write the end of any 
book." 

" Ye who read, pray for me, who have 
written this book, the humble and sinful 
Theodulus." 

" As many therefore as shall read this 
book, pardon me, I beseech you, if aught 
I have erred in accent acute and grave, 
in apostrophe, in breathing soft or aspi- 
rate ; and may God save you all \ 
Amen." 

" If anything is well, praise the tran- 
scriber : if ill, pardon his unskilfulncss." 



" Ye who read, pray for me, the most 
sinful of all men, for the Lord's sake." 

" The hand that has written this book 
shall decay, alas ! and become dust, and 
go down to the grave, the corrupter of all 
bodies. But all ye who arc of the por- 
tion of Christ, pray that I may obtain the 
pardon of my sins. Again and again I 
beseech you with tears, brothers and fa- 
thers, accept my miserable supplication, 
O holy choir ! I am called John, woe is 
me ! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, 
in name only, not in unction." 

" Whoever shall carry away this book, 
without permission of the Pope, may he 
incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, 
of the Holy Mother of God, of Saint John 
the Baptist, of the one hundred and eigh- 
teen holy Nicene Fathers, and of all the 
Saints ; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah ; 
and the halter of Judas ! Anathema, 
amen." 

" Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, 
and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with 
which I have written this book." 

" Mathusalas Machir transcribed this 
divinest book in toil, infirmity, and dan- 
gers many." 

" Bacchius Barbardorius and Michael 
Sophianus wrote this book in sport and 
laughter, being the guests of their noble 
and common friend Vincentius Pinellus, 
and Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man." 

This last colophon, Montfaucon does 
not suffer to pass without reproof. 
" Other calligraphers," he remarks, " de- 
mand only the prayers of their readers, 
and the pardon of their sins ; but these 
glory in their wantonness." 

Page 262. Drink down to your peg ! 

One of the canons of Archbishop An- 
selm, promulgated at the beginning of 
the twelfth century, ordains " that priests 
go not to drinking-bouts, nor drink to 
pegs." In the times of the hard-drinking 
Danes, King Edgar ordained that " pins 
or nails should be fastened into the drink- 
ing-cups or horns at stated distances, and 
whosoever should drink beyond those 
marks at one draught should be obno.x- 
ious to a severe punishment." 

Sharpc, in his History of the Kings of 



6o8 



NOTES. 



England, says : " Our ancestors were 
formerly famous for compotation ; their 
liquor was ale, and one method of amus- 
ing themselves in this way was with the 
peg-tankard. I had lately one of them 
in my hand. It had on the inside a row 
of eight pins, one above another, from 
top to bottom. It held two quarts, and 
was a noble piece of plate, so that there 
was a gill of ale, half a pint Winchester 
measure, between each peg. The law 
was, that every person that drank was to 
empty the space between pin and pin, so 
that the pins were so many measures to 
make the company all drink alike, and 
to swallow the same quantity of liquor. 
This was a pretty sure method of making 
all the company drunk, especially if it be 
considered that the rule was, that who- 
ever drank short of his pin, or beyond it, 
was obliged to drink again, and even as 
deep as to the next pin." 

Page 262. The convent of St. Gildas 
de Rhiiys. 

Abelard, in a letter to his friend Philin- 
tus, gives a sad picture of this monastery. 
" I live," he says, " in a barbarous coun- 
try, the language of which I do not under- 
stand ; I have no conversation but with 
the rudest people, my walks are on the 
inaccessible shore of a sea, which is per- 
petually stormy. my monks are only 
known by their dissoluteness, and living 
without any rule or order, could you see 
the abby, Philintus, you would not call it 
one. the doors and walks are without 
any ornament, except the heads of wild 
boars and hinds feet, which are nailed up 
against them, and the hides of frightful 
animals, the cells are hung with the 
skins of deer, the monks have not so 
much as a bell to wake them, the cocks 
and dogs supply that defect, in short, 
they pass their whole days in hunting ; 
wovild to heaven that were their greatest 
fault ! or that their pleasures terminated 
there ! I endeavor in vain to recall them 
to their duty ; they all combine against 
me, and I only expose myself to continual 
vexations and dangers. I imagine I see 
evei7 moment a naked sword hang over 
my head, sometimes thej^surround me, 



and load me with infinite abuses ; some- 
times they abandon me, and I am left 
alone to my own tormenting thoughts. I 
make it my endeavor to merit by my suf- 
ferings, and to appease an angry God. 
sometimes I grieve for the loss of the house 
of the Paraclete, and wish to see it again, 
ah Philintus, does not the love of Heloise 
still burn in my heart t I have not yet 
triumphed over that unhappy passion, in 
the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, 
I pine, I speak the dear name Heloise, 
and am pleased to hear the sound." — 
Letters of the Celebrated Abelard and 
Heloise. Translated by Mr. John Hughes. 
Glasgow, 1 75 1. 

Page 275. Were it not for ?ny 7nagic 
garters and staff. 

The method of making the Magic Gar- 
ters and the Magic Staff is thus laid down 
in Les Secrets Merveillciix dit Petit Albert, 
a French translation of Alberti Parvi 
Lucii Libel I us de Mirabiltbus N'aturcB 
Arcanis : — 

" Gather some of the herb called 
motherwort, when the sun is entering the 
first degree of the sign of Capricorn ; let 
it dry a little in the shade, and make 
some garters of the skin of a young hare ; 
that is to say, having cut the skin of the 
hare into strips two inches wide, double 
them, sew the before-mentioned herb be- 
tween, and wear them on your legs. No 
horse can long keep up with a man on 
foot, who is furnished with these garters." 
— p. 128. 

" Gather, on the morrow of All-Saints, 
a strong branch of willow, of which you 
will make a staff, fashioned to your liking. 
Hollow it out, by removing the pith from 
within, after having furnished the lower 
end with an iron ferule. Put into the 
bottom of the staff the two eyes of a 
young wolf, the tongue and heart of a 
dog, three green lizards, and the hearts 
of three swallows. These must all be 
dried in the sun, between two papers, 
having been first sprinkled with finely 
pulverized saltpetre. Besides all these, 
put into the staff seven leaves of vervain, 
gathered on the eve of St. John the Bap- 
tist, with a stone of divers colors, which 



NOTES. 



609 



you will find in the nest of the lapwing, 
and stop the end of the staff with a pomel 
of box, or of any other material you 
please, and be assured, that the staff will 
guarantee you from the perils and mis- 
haps which too ofien befall travellers, 
either from robbers, wild beasts, mad 
dogs, or venomous animals. It will also 
procure you the good-will of those with 
whom you lodge." — p. 130. 

Page 279. Saint Elmo's stars. 

So the Italian sailors call the phos- 
phorescent gleams that sometimes play 
about the masts and rigging of shi])s. 

Page 280. The School of Salerno. 

For a history of the celebrated schools 
of Salerno and Monte-Cassino, the reader 
is referred to Sir Alexander Croke's In- 
troduction to the Reghnen Sanitatis Saler- 
nitamtm ; and to Kurt Sprengel's Ge- 
schichte der ArzneiknnJe, I. 463, or Jour- 
dan's French translation of it, Histoire de 
la Medicine, II. 354. 

Page 291. The Song of Hiawatha. 

This Indian Edda — if I may so call it 
— is founded on a tradition prevalent 
among the North American Indians, of a 
personage of miraculous birth, who was 
sent among them to clear their rivers, 
forests, and fishing-grounds, and to teach 
them the arts of peace. He was known 
among different tribes by the several 
names of Michabou, Chiabo, Manabozo, 
Tarenyawagon, and Hiawatha. Mr. 
Schoolcraft gives an account of him in his 
Algic Researches, Vol. I. p. 134 ; and in 
his History, Condition, and Prospects of the 
Indian Tribes of the United States, Part 
III. p. 314, may be found the Iroquois 
form of the tradition, derived from the 
verbal narrations of an Onondaga chief 

Into this old tradition I have woven 
other curious Indian legends, drawn 
chiefly from the various and valuable writ- 
ings of Mr. Schoolcraft, to whom the lit- 
erary world is greatly indebted for his 
indefatigable zeal in rescuing from obliv- 
ion so much of the fegendary lore of the 
Indians. 

The scene of the poem is amono: the 



Ojibways on the southern shore of Lake 
Superior, in the region between the Pic- 
tured Rocks and the Grand Sable. 

Page 291. Jn the Vale of Tuwasentha. 

This valley, now called Norman's Kill, 
is in Albany County, New York. 

Page 292. On the Mountains of the 
Prairie. 

Mr. Catlin, in his Letters and Notes on 
the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the 
North American Indians, Vol. II. p. 160, 
gives an interesting account of the C6teau 
des Prairies, and the Red Pipe-stone 
Quarry. He says : — 

" Here (according to their traditions) 
happened the mysterious birth of the red 
pipe, which has blown its fumes of peace 
and war to the remotest comers of the 
continent ; which has visited every war- 
rior, and passed through its reddened 
stem the irrevocable oath of war and des- 
olation. And liere, also, the peace- 
breathing calumet was born, and fringed 
with the eagle's quills, which has shed its 
thrilling fumes over the land, and soothed 
the fury of the relentless savage. 

" The Great Spirit at an ancient period 
here called the Indian nations together, 
and, standing on the precipice of the red 
pipe-stone rock, broke from its wall a 
piece, and made a huge pipe by turning 
it in his hand, which he smoked over 
them, and to the North, the South, the 
East, and the West, and told them that 
this stone was red, — that it was their 
flesh, — that they must use it for their 
pipes of peace, — that it belonged to them 
all, and that the war-club and scalping- 
knife must not be raised on its ground. 
At the last whiff of his pipe his head 
went into a great cloud, and the whole 
surface of the rock for several miles was 
melted and glazed ; two great ovens were 
opened beneath, and two women (guar- 
dian spirits of the place) entered them in 
a blaze of fire ; and they are heard there 
yet (Tso-mec-cos-tee and Tso-me-cos-te- 
won-dee), answering to tne invocations 
of the high-priests or medicine-men, who 
consult them when they are visitors to 
this sacred place." 



6i o 



NOTES. 



Page 295. Hark yon. Bear ! yon are a 
C07uard. 

This anecdote is from Heckewelder. 
In his account of the Indian N^ations, he 
describes an Indian hunter as addressing 
a bear in nearly these words. " I was 
present," he says, " at the delivery of this 
curious invective ; when the hunter had 
despatched the bear, I asked him how he 
thought that poor animal could under- 
stand what he said to it. ' O,' said he 
in answer, ' the bear understood me very 
well ; did you not observe how ashamed 
he looked while I was upbraiding him .'' ' " 
— Transactions of the America/i Philo- 
sophical Society, Vol. I. p. 240. 

Page 299. Hnsh ! the Naked Bear 
will hear thee ! 

Heckewelder, in a letter published in 
the Transactions of the American Philo- 
sophical Society, Vol. IV. p. 260, speaks 
of this tradition as prevalent among the 
Mohicans and Delawares. 

"Their reports," he says, "run thus: 
that among all animals that had been 
formerly in this country, this was the 
most ferocious ; that it was much larger 
than the largest of the common bears, 
and remarkably long-bodied ; all over 
(except a spot of hair on its back of a 
white color) naked 

" The histoiy of this animal used to 
be a subject of conversation among the 
Indians, especially when in the woods a 
hunting. I have also heard them say to 
their children when crying : ' Hush ! the 
naked bear will hear you, be upon you, 
and devour you.' " 

Page 305. Where tlie falls of Minne- 
haha, etc. 

" The scenery about Fort Snelling is 
rich in beauty. The Falls of St. An- 
thony are familiar to travellers, and to 
readers of Indian sketches. Between the 
fort and these falls are the ' Little Falls,' 
forty feet in height, on a stream that 
empties into the Mississippi. The Indi- 
ans call them Mine-hah-hah, or ' laughing 
waters.'" — Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah, 
or Legends of the Sioux, Introd. p. ii. 



Page 324. Sand Hills of the Nagovt 
Wudjoo. 

A description of the Grand Sable, or 
great sand dunes of Lake Superior, is 
given in Foster and Whitney's Repoi-t on 
the Geology of the Lake Superior Land 
District, Part II. p. 13 1. 

" The Grand Sable possesses a scenic 
interest little inferior to that of the Pic- 
tured Rocks. The explorer passes ab- 
ruptly from a coast of consolidated sand 
to one of loose materials ; and although 
in the one case the cliffs are less precipi- 
tous, yet in the other they attain a higher 
altitude. He sees before him a long 
reach of coast, resembling a vast sand- 
bank, more than three hundred and fifty 
feet in height, without a trace of vege- 
tation. Ascending to the top, rounded 
hillocks of blown sand are observed, with 
occasional clumps of trees, standing out 
like oases in the desert." 

Page 325. Onazuay I Azuake, beloved ! 

The original of this song may be found 
in Littell's Living Age, Vol. XXV. p. 45. 

Page 326. On the Red Swan floating, 
flying. 

The fanciful tradition of the Red Swan 
may be found in Schoolcraft's Algic Re- 
searches, Vol. II. p. 9. Three brothers 
were hunting on a wager to see who 
would bring home the first game. 

" They were to shoot no other animal," 
so the legend says, " but such as each 
was in the habit of killing. They set out 
different ways : Odjibwa, the youngest, 
had not gone far before he saw a bear, 
an animal he was not to kill, by the 
agreement. He followed him close, and 
drove an arrow through him, which 
brought him to the ground. Although 
contrary to the bet, he immediately com- 
menced skinning him, when suddenly 
something red tinged all the air around 
him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he 
was perhaps deceived ; but without effect, 
for the red hue continued. At length he 
heard a strange noise at a distance. It 
first appeared like a human voice, but 



NOTES. 



6ii 



after following the sound for some dis- 
tance, he reached the shores of a lake, 
and soon saw the object he was looking 
for. At a distance out in the lake sat a 
most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage 
glittered in the sun, and who would now 
and then make the same noise he had 
heard. He was within long bow-shot, 
and, pulling the arrow from the bow- 
string up to his ear, took deliberate aim 
and shot. The arrow took no effect ; 
and he shot and shot again till his quiver 
was empty. Still the swan remained, 
moving round and round, stretching its 
long neck and dipping its bill into the 
water, as if heedless of the arrows shot 
at it. Odjibwa ran home, and got all his 
own and his brother's arrows, and shot 
them all away. He then stood and gazed 
at the beautiful bird. While standing, 
he remembered his brother's sayiug that 
in their deceased father's medicine-sack 
were three magic arrows. Off he started, 
his anxiety to kill the swan overcoming 
all scruples. At any other time, he would 
have deemed it sacrilege to open his fa- 
ther's medicine-sack ; but now he hastily 
seized the three arrows and ran back, 
leaving the other contents of the sack 
scattered over the lodge. The swan was 
still there. He shot the first arrow with 
great precision, and came very near to it. 
The second came still closer ; as he took 
the last arrow, he felt his arm firmer, and, 
drawing it up with vigor, saw it pass 
through the neck of the swan a little 
above the breast. Still it did not pre- 
vent the bird from flying off, which it did, 
however, at first slowly, flapping its wings 
and rising gradually into the air, and 
then flying off toward the sinking of the 
sun." — pp. IO-I2. 

Page 330. When I think of my be- 
loved. 
The original of this song may be found 
in Oneota, p. 15. 

Page 330. Sing the mysteries of A/on- 
daviin. 

The Indians hold the maize, or Indian 
com, in great veneration. " They esteem 
it so imjiortant and divine a grain," says 



Schoolcraft, "that their story-tellers in- 
vented various tales, in which this idea is 
symbolized under the form of a special 
gift from the Great Spirit. The Odjibwa- 
Algonquins, who call it Mon-da-min, that 
is, the Spirit's grain or berry, have a 
pretty story of this kind, in which the 
stalk in full tassel is represented as de- 
scending from the sky, under the guise 
of a handsome youth, in answer to the 
prayers of a young man at his fast of 
virility, or coming to manhood. 

" It is well known that corn-planting 
and corn-gathering, at least among all 
the still nncolonized tribes, are left en- 
tirely to the females and children, and a 
few superannuated old men. It is not 
generally known, perhaps, that this labor 
is not compulsory, and that it is assumed 
by the females as a just equivalent, in 
their view, for the onerous and continu- 
ous labor of the other se.x, in providing 
meats, and skins for clothing, by the 
chase, and in defending their villages 
against their enemies, and keeping in- 
truders off their territories. A good In- 
dian housewife deems this a part of her 
prerogative, and prides herself to have a 
store of corn to exercise her hospitality, 
or duly honor her husband's hospitality, 
in the entertainment of the lodge guests." 
— Oneota, p. 82. 

Page 330. Thus the fields shall be more 
fruitful. 

" A singular proof of this belief, in 
both sexes, of the mysterious influence of 
the steps of a woman on the vegetable 
and insect creation, is found in an ancient 
custom, which was related to me, respect- 
ing corn-planting. It was the practice of 
the hunter's wife, when the field of com 
had been planted, to choose the first dark 
or ovtrdouded evening to perform a se- 
cret circuit, sans hahiUement, around the 
field. For this purpose she slipped out 
of the lodge in the evening, unobserved, 
to some obscure nook, where she com- 
pletely disrobed. Then, taking her 
matchecota, or principal garment, in one 
hand, she dragged it around the field. 
This was thought to insure a prolific crop, 
and to prevent the assaults of insects and 



I 



6l2 



NOTES. 



worms upon the grain. It was supposed 
they could not creep over the charmed 
line." — Oneota, p. 83. 

Page 33 1 . With his prisoner -string he 
bon?id him. 

" These cords," says Mr. Tanner, " are 
made of the bark of the elm-tree, by boil- 
ing and then immersing it in cold water. 
.... The leader of a war party com- 
monly carries several fastened about his 
waist, and if, in the course of the fight, 
any one of his young men takes a pris- 
oner, it is his duty to bring him immedi- 
ately to the chief, to be tied, and the lat- 
ter is responsible for his safe keeping." — 
Narrative of Captivity and Adventures, p. 
412. 

Page 333. 

Wage7nin, the thief of cornfields, 
Paimosaid, who steals the 7naizc-car. 

" If one of the young female buskers 
finds a red ear of corn, it is typical of a 
brave admirer, and is regarded as a fit- 
ting present to some young warrior. But 
if the ear be crooked, and tapering to a 
point, no matter what color, the whole 
circle is set in a roar, and wa-ge-min is 
the word shouted aloud. It is the sym- 
bol of a thief in the cornfield. It is con- 
sidered as the image of an old man stoop- 
ing as he enters the lot. Had the chisel 
of Praxiteles been employed to produce 
this image, it could not more vividly 
bring to the minds of the merry group 
the idea of a pilferer of their favorite 
mondamin. . . . 

" The literal meaning of the term is, a 
mass, or crooked ear of grain ; but the 
ear of corn so called is a conventional 
type of a little old man pilfering ears of 
corn in a cornfield. It is in this manner 
that a single word or term, in these curi- 
ous languages, becomes the fruitful \i2S- 
ent of many ideas. And we can thus 
perceive why it is that the word wageinin 
is alone competent to excite merriment 
in the husking circle. 

" This term, is taken as the basis of the 
cereal chorus, or corn song, as sung by 
the Northern Algonquin tribes. It is 
coupled with the phrase Paimosaid, — a 



permutative form of the Indian substan- 
tive, made from the verb fim-o-sa, to 
walk. Its literal meaning is, he who 
walks, or the walker x but the ideas con- 
veyed by it are, he who walks by night to 
pilfer corn. It offers, therefore, a kind 
of parallelism in expression to the preced- 
ing term." — Oneota, p. 254. 

Page 339. Pugasaing, with thirteen 
pieces. 

This Game of the Bowl is the princi- 
pal game of hazard among the Northern 
tribes of Indians. IMr. Schoolcraft gives 
a particular account of it in Oneota, p. 85. 
" This game," he says, " is very fascinat- 
ing to some portions of the Indians. They 
stake at it their ornaments, weapons, 
clothing, canoes, horses, everything in 
fact they possess ; and have been known, 
it is said, to set up their wives and chil- 
dren, and even to forfeit their own liberty. 
Of such desperate stakes I have seen no 
examples, nor do I think the game itself 
in common use. It is rather confined to 
certain persons, who hold the relative 
rank of gamblers in Indian society, — 
men who are not noted as hunters or 
warriors, or steady providers for their 
families. Among these are persons who 
bear the term of lenadizze-wug, that is, 
wanderers about the country, braggado- 
cios, or fops. It can hardly be classed 
with the popular games of amusement, 
by which skill and dexterity are acquired. 
I have generally found the chiefs and 
graver men of the tribes, who encouraged 
the young men to play ball, and are sure 
to be present at the customary sports, to 
witness, and sanction, and applaud them, 
speak lightly and disparagingly of this 
game of hazard. Yet it cannot be denied 
that some of the chiefs, distinguished in 
war and the chase, at the West, can be 
referred to as lending their example to its 
fascinating power." 

See also his History, Condition, and 
Prospects of the Indian Tribes, Part II. p. 
72. 

Page 345. To the Pictured Rocks of 

sandstone. 
The reader will find a long description 
of the Pictured Rocks in Foster and 



NOTES. 



613 



Whitney's Report on the Ceolo<^< cf the 
Lake Superior Land District, Part II. p. 
124. From this I make the following 
extract : — 

" The Pictured Rocks may be described, 
in general terms, as a series of sandstone 
bluffs extending along the shore of Lake 
Superior for about five miles, and rising, 
in most places, vertically from the water, 
without any beach at the base, to a height 
varying from fifty to nearly two hundred 
feet Were they simply a line of cliffs, 
they might not, so far as relates to height 
or extent, be worthy of a rank among great 
natural curiosities, although such an as- 
semblage of rocky strata, washed by the 
waves of the great lake, would not, under 
any circumstances, be destitute of gran- 
deur. To the voyager, coasting along 
their base in his frail canoe, they would, 
at all times, be an object of dread ; the 
recoil of the surf, the rock-bound coast, 
affording, for miles, no place of refuge, — 
the lowering sky, the rising wind, — all 
these would excite his apprehension, and 
induce him to ply a vigorous oar until 
the dreaded wall was passed. But in the 
Pictured Rocks there are two features 
which communicate to the scenery a 
wonderful and almost unique character. 
These are, first, the curious manner in 
which the cliffs have been excavated and 
worn away by the action of the lake, 
which, for centuries, has dashed an ocean- 
like surf against their base ; and, second, 
the equally curious manner in which large 
portions of the surface have been colored 
by bands of brilliant hues. 

" It is from the latter circumstance 
that the name, by which these cliffs are 
known to the American traveller, is de- 
rived ; while that applied to them by the 
French voyageurs {' Les Portails ') is de- 
rived from the former, and by far the 
most striking peculiarity. 

" The term Pictured Kocks has been in 
use for a great length of time ; but when 
it was first applied, we have been unable 
to discover. It would seem that the first 
travellers were more impressed with the 
novel and striking distribution of colors 
on the surface than with the astonishing 
variety of form into which the cliffs them- 
selves have been worn. . . . 



" Our voyageurs had many legends to 
relate of the pranks of the Mennibojou in 
these caverns, and, in answer to our in- 
quiries, seemed disposed to fabricate sto- 
ries, without end, of the achievements of 
this Indian deity." 

Page 356. Toward the sun his hands 
lucre lifted. 

In this manner, and with such saluta- 
tions, was Father Marquette received by 
the Illinois. See his Voyages et Dicou- 
verles, Section V., in Shea's Discovery 
and Exploration of the Mississippi Valley, 
pages 22 and 242. 

Page 390. 

That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder. 

The words of St. Augustine are, — 
" De vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, 
si vitia ipsa calcamus." 

Sermon III. De Ascensione. 

Page 391. The Phantom Ship. 

A detailed account of this "apparition 
of a Ship in the Air " is given by Cotton 
Mather in his Magnalia CAristi, Book I. 
Ch. VI. It is contained in a letter from 
the Rev. James Pierpont, Pastor of New 
Havi*i. To this account Mather adds 
these words : — 

*' Reader, there being yet living so 
many credible gentlemen that were eye- 
witnesses of this wonderful thing, I ven- 
ture to publish it for a thing as undoubted 
as 't is wonderful." 

Page 394. And the Emperor but a 

Macho. 

Macho, in Spanish, signifies a mule. 
Golondrina is the feminine form oiGolon- 
drino, a swallow, and also a cant name 
for a deserter. 

Page 397. Victor Galbraith. 

This poem is founded on fact Victor 
Galbraith was a bugler in a company of 
volunteer cavalry, and was shot in 
Mexico for some breach of discipline. 
It is a common superstition among sol- 
diers, that no balls will kill them unless 



6i4 



NOTES. 



their names are written on them. The 
old proverb says, " Every bullet has its 
billet" 

Page 398. Oliver Basselin. 

Oliver Basselin, the " Pire joyeux du 
Vaudeville^' flourished in the fifteenth 
century, and gave to his convivial songs 
the name of his native valleys, in which 
he sang them, Vaux-de-Vire. This name 
was afterwards corrupted into the modern 
Vaicdeville. 

Page 400. / remember the sea-fight far 
away. 

This was the engagement between the 



Enterprise and Boxer, off the harbor of 
Portland, in which both captains were 
slain. They were buried side by side, in 
the cemetery on Mountjoy. 

Page 404. Santa Filomena. 

" At Pisa the church of San Francisco 
contains a chapel dedicated lately to 
Santa Filomena ; over the altar is a pic- 
ture, by Sabatelli, representing the- Saint 
as a beautiful, nymph-like figure, floating 
down from heaven, attended by two 
angels bearing the lily, palm, and javelin, 
and beneath, in the foreground, the sick 
and maimed, who are healed by her inter- 
cession." — Mrs. Jameson, Sacred and 
Legendary Art, II. 298. 



INDEX. 




[The titles in small capital letters are those of t 


he principal divisions of the work, those in 


lower- 


case are single poems, or the subdinsions of long 


poems.] 




Aftermath, 419. 


Builders, The, 195. 




Afternoon in February, 124. 


Building of the Long Serpent, The, 


459- 


Amalfi, 423. 


Building of the Ship, The, 179. 




Angel and the Child, The, 555. 


Burial of the Minnisink, The, 17. 




Annie of Tharaw, 129. 


By the Fireside, 194. 




April Day, An, u. 


By the Se.vside. 179. 




Arrow and the Song, The, 121. 






Arsenal at Springfield, The, 103. 


Cadenabbia, 421. 




Autumn, 12, 126. 


Carillon, loi. 




Azrael, 503. 


Castle by the Sea, The, 34. 
Castle-Builder, The, 417. 




Ballad of Carmilhan, The, 488. 


Catawba Wine, 403. 




Ballads and other Poems, 36. 


Celestial Pilot, The, 26. 




Baron of St. Castine, The, 496. 


Challenge, The, 417. 




Beatrice, 28. 


Challenge of Thor, The, 447. 




Beleaguered City, The, 8. 


Changed, 417. 




Belfry of Bruges and other Poems, 


Charlemagne, 504. 




The, ioi. 


Charles Sumner, 420. 




Belfry of Bruges, The, lOi. 


Chaucer, 584. 




Belisarius, 424. 


Child Asleep, The, 29. 




Bell of Atri, The, 481. 


Children, 408. 




Bells of Lynn, The, 533. 


Children of the Lord's Supper, Th 


;. 43- 


Beware, 33. 


Children's Hour, The, 412. 




Bird and the Ship, The, 32. 


Christmas Bells, 533. 




Birds of Killingworth, The, 474. 


Christmas Carol, A, 209. 




Birds of Passage, 198. 


Chrysaor, 188. 




Birds of Passage. 


Cobbler of Hagenau, The, 4S5. 




Flight the First, 390. 


Consolation, 554. 




Flight the Second, 412. 


Coplas de Manrique, 19. 




Flight the Third, 416. 


Courtship of Miles Standish, 


The, 


Flight the Fourth, 420. 


362. 




Bishop Sigurd at Salten Fiord, 457. 


Crew of the Long Serpent, The, 461 




Black Knight, The, 34. 


Cumberland, The, 415. 




Blessing the Cornfields, 330. 


Curfew, 131. 




Blind Bartimeus, 53. 






Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille, The, 204. 


Dante, 127. 




Bridge, The, 106. 


Day of Sunshine, 414. 




Bridge of Cloud, The, 530. 


Day is Done, The, 118. 




Brook, The, 26. 


Daybreak, 407. 




Brook and the Wave, The, 418. 


Daylight and Moonlight, 399. 




Boy and the Brook, The, 553. 


Dead, The, 31. 





6i6 INDEX. 


Death of Kwasind, The, 346. 


Haunted Houses, 392. 


Dedication to the Seaside and the Fire- 


Hawthorne, 532. 


side, 178. 


Hemlock-Tree, The, 128. 


Discoverer of the North Cape, The, 405. 


Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis, 301. 


Divina Commedia, 534. 


Hiawatha and the Pearl -Feather, 316. 


Drinking Song, 119. 


Hiawatha's Childhood, 298. 




Hiawatha's Departure, 356. 


Earlier Poems, ii. 


Hiawatha's Fasting, 305. 


Einar Tamberskelver, 466. 


Hiawatha's Fishing, 305. 


Elected Knight, The, 42. 


Hiawatha's Friends, 309. 


Elizabeth, 514. 


Hiawatha's Lamentation, 335. 


Emma and Eginhard, 505. 


Hiawatha's Sailing, 311. 


Emperor's Bird's-Nest, The, 394. 


Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast, 323. 


Enceladus, 412. 


Hiawatha's Wooing, 319, 


Endymion, 52. 


Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis, The, 341. 


Epimetheus, 410. 


Hymn, 203. 


Evangeline, 132. 


Hymn of the Moravian Nuns, 14. 


Evening Star, The, 127. 


Hymn to the Night, 3. 


Excelsior, 55. 






11 Ponte Vecchio di Firenze, 587. 


Falcon of Ser Federigo, The, 433. 


Lnage of God, The, 25. 


Famine, The, 350. 


In the Churchyard at Cambridge, 394. 


Fata Morgana, 416. 


Interludes to the Wayside Inn, 433, 440, 


Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz, 408. 


442, 447, 469, 474, 483, 485, 488, 491, 


Finales to Wayside Inn, 479, 500, 526. 


494, 496, 503. 505. 509, 514. 520, 522, 


Fire of Drift-Wood, The, 189. 


524- 


Flower-de-Luce, and other Poems, 


Introduction to the Song of Hiawatha, 


528. 


292. 


Flower-de-Luce, 528. 


Iron-Beard, 453. 


Flowers, 7. 


It is not always May, 58. 


Footsteps of Angels, 4. 




Four Winds, The, 295. 


Jewish Cemetery at Newport, The, 395. 


From the Spanish Cancioneros, 418. 


John Alden, 371. 


Fugitive, The, 552. 


Judas Maccabeus, 539. 


Galaxy, The, 366. 


Kambalu, 484. 


Gaspar Becerra, 198. 


Keats, 585. 


Ghosts, The, 347. 


Killed at the Ford, 535. 


Giotto's Tower, 537. 


King Christian, 30. 


Gleam of Sunshine, The, 1 10. 


King Olaf and Earl Sigvald, 464. 


Goblet of Life, The, 59. 


King Olaf's Christmas, 458. 


God's- Acre, 57. 


King Olaf s Death-Drink, 466. 


Golden Legend, The, 211. 


King Olaf's Return, 447. 


Golden Milestone, The, 402. 


King Olaf's War-Horns, 465. 


Good Part, The, 62. 


King Robert of Sicily, 442. 


Good Shepherd, 25. 


King Svend of the Forked Beard, 464. 


Grave, The, 29. 


King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn, 197. 


Gudrun, 455. 






Ladder of St. Augustine, The, 390. 


Handful of Translations, A, 552. 


Lady Wentworth, 492. 


Hanging of the Crane, The, 569. 


Landlord's Tales, The, 430, 524. 


Happiest Land, The, 31. 


Legend Beautiful, The, 494. 


Haunted Chamber, The, 416. 


Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi, The, 440. 



INDEX. 6 1 7 


Legend of the Crossbill, The, 130. 


Quadroon Ciirl, The, 64. 


L'Envoi, 35. 


Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 449. 


Light of Stars, The, 6. 


Queen Thyri and the Angelica Stalks, 


Lighthouse, The, 190. 


462. 


Little Bird in the Air, The, 462. 




Love and P'riendship, 364. 


Rain in .Summer, 114. 


Lover's Errand, The, 366. 


Rainy Day, The, 52. 


Luck of Edenhall, The, 41. 


Raud the Strong, 457. 




Reaper and the Flowers, The, 5. 


Maidenhood, 55. 


Remorse, 556. 


March of Miles Standish, The, 381. 


Resignation, 194. 


.^L\SQUE OF Pandora, The, 557. 


Rhyme of Sir Christopher, The, 524. 


Meeting, The, 416. 


Ropewalk, The, 401. 


Midnight Mass for the Dying Year, 9. 




Miles Standish, 362. 


Saga of King Olaf, The, 447. 


Milton, 5S4. 


Sailing of the Mayflower, 375. 


Miscellaneous, 50, 103. 


Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass, 


Monk of Casal-Maggiore, The, 515. 


196. 


Monte Cassino, 421. 


Sandal phon, 409. 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS, 578. 


Santa Filomena, 404. 


Mother's Ghost, The, 523. 


Santa Teresa's Book-Mark, 556. 


Musician's Tales, The, 447, 488, 523. 


Scanderbeg, 520. 


My Lost Youth, 399. 


Sea hath its Pearls, The, 130. 




Seaside and the Fireside, The, 178. 


Nameless Grave. A, 586. 


Seaweed, 12 1. 


Native Land, The, 25. 


Secret of the Sea, The, 188. 


Noel, 538. 


Sermon of St. Francis, The, 424. 


Norman Baron, The, 108. 


Shadow, A, 586. 


Nun of Nidaros, The, 467. 


Shakespeare, 5S4. 


Nuremberg, 104. 


Sicilian Tales, The, 442, 481, 515. 




Siege of Kazan, The, 553. 


Occultation of Orion, The, 117. 


Singers, The, 201. 


Old Bridge at Florence, The, 587. 


Sir Humphrey Gilbert, 192. 


Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 122, 


Skeleton in Armor, The, 36, 


Oliver Basselin, 398. 


Skerry of Shrieks, The, 450. 


Open Window, The, 199. 


Slave in the Dismal Swamp, The, 63. 




Slave Singing at Midnight, The, 63. 


Palingenesis, 529. 


Slave's Dream, The, 61. 


Pau-Puk-Keewis, 338. 


Sleep, 586. 


Paul Revere's Ride, 430. 


Snow-Flakes, 414. 


Peace-Pipe, The, 292. 


Something left Undone, 412. 


Pegasus in Pound, 199. 


Son of the Evening Star, The, 326. 


Phantom Ship, The, 391. 


Song of Hiawatha, The, 392. 


Picture-Writing, 333. 


Song of the Bell, The, ^3. 


Poems on Slavery, 61. 


Song of the Silent Land, 35. 


Poetic Aphorisms, 130. 


Songo River, 425. 


Poet's Tales, The, 283, 294, 474, 492, 504. 


Songs, 118. 


Preludes to Tales of a \Vayside Inn, 426, 


Sonnet, 204. 


4S0, 501. 


Sonnets, 126. 


Prelude to Voices of the Night, i. 


Sonnets, A Book of, 583. 


Priscilla, 378. 


Sound of the Sea, The, 585. 


Prometheus, 390. 


Spanish Jew's Tales, The, 440, 484, 503, 


Psalm of Life, A, 4. 


520. 



6i8 



INDEX. 



Spanish Student, The, 66. 

Spinning-Wheel, The, 383. 

Spirit of Poetry, The, 15. 

Spring, 29. 

Statue over the Cathedral Door, The, 

129. 
Student's Tales, The, 433, 4S5, 496, 505. 
Summer Day by the Sea, A, 585. 
Sunrise on the Hills, 14. 
Suspiria, 204. 

Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

Part First, 426. 

Part Second, 480. 

Part Third, 501. 
Tegner's Drapa, 200. 
Terrestrial Paradise, The, 27. 
Thangbrand the Priest, 456. 
Theologian's Tales, The, 469, 494, 509. 
Thora of Rimol, 448. 
Three Friends of Mine, 583. 
Tides, The, 586. 
To a Child, in. 

To an Old Danish Song-Book, 120, 
To Cardinal Richelieu, 554. 
To Italy, 555- 

To the Driving Cloud, 116. 
To the River Charles, 53. 
To the Stork, 554. 



To William E. Channing, 61. 
To-morrow, 25, 535. 
Torquemada, 469. 
Translations, 19, 128. 
Travels by the Fireside, 420. 
Twilight, 192. 
Two Angels, The, 396. 
Two Locks of Hair, The, 57. 

Victor Galbraith, 397. 
Village Blacksmith, The, 50. 
Voices of the Night, i. 
Vox Populi, 417. 

Walter von der Vogelweid, 124. 

Wanderer's Night-Songs, 556. 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The, 393. 

Warning, The, 65. 

Wave, The, 31. 

Wayside Inn, The, 426. 

Weariness, 413. 

Wedding-Day, The, 387. 

White Man's Foot, The, 353. 

Whither, 33. 

Wind over the Chimney, The, 531. 

Witnesses, The, 65. 

Woods in Winter, 13. 

Wraith of Odin, The, 452. 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 39. 





^^ *. 






\) ■7*, >■ yy 



^"-^^ 






^. "* 






^-./ 







^^-^^^ 



.*l^x. 



o'L*."' -?■ 



^» s • • » ^-\ 















<> *'r. s* ,0 







« e . ^^ 








^ 



.v o * 
















^ ^' 





.^^ 












^^^'V 

"y V 












,^^ , o " o , <« * ' 0^ . w ' . . -^O 4.*^ o • " • . '<e<. 

'-^^f '•.^?.-^ ^-s-''^. °->'^^*:*" *"^^''** .«^^"\. °'v 

- -^/.^^ ' 



■0^ 



o V 






.0 ,^'** O, 









^0 



o , 

' • -» ^ AT ' 




:;vW/' 



V.^ A*" 









?.°-v^. 









•■• if • 4 O 






<> 



V 




«>• % 



^ 



<^" 



